smaller crosses


by Jonathan Hunter-Kilmer

leave behind the need to hold

what comes and grip what looks like gold

my open fingers take or leave

my ready mouth will You receive

the lips that touch that flesh carress

and speak to make pain's volume less

the blood that paints my thoughts with ease

the tears that palliate disease

a stroke that calms or bursts the swell

of flesh engorged with Your sweet smell

and steps beneath my feet before

the waiting thorns and rocks that tore

Your skin instead of mine abraid

and flay with hurt that's fear allayed

all You, Sweet, keep the worst from me

what's left I suffer for You, free

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