by Jonathan Hunter-Kilmer
I probe for new homes
for Your word
(should I say audience)
the risk of hearing once again
“your poems make no sense”
for so the prophets, saints and fools
You warned us
we would be
looked at askance
condemned
or stoned
and that not cheerfully
but since You spilled Your blood
Beloved
and some stilled turned away
I must reach out
so trustfully
with what You'd have me say
my blood and sweat I add to Yours
my tears with Yours I toss
and held within Your arms I'll be
as I hang on my cross
