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