You
died for all men’s sins, so why do I die too?
Or
is it not for sins I die? Is it that you
Contrive
some more ignoble travesty or trick?
Does
bating bears or training dogs to fight seem sick?
Do
angels wager on my grimaces and cheer
When
I begin to flag or witless fill with fear?
What
marvels of logic you do make. But say this:
Was
it I whose weakness bartered the traitor’s kiss?
And
did I, feckless, hide away when you were scourged
Or
stand and jeer you at your death when I was urged?
Is
one death not enough that you will ask for mine?
Enough?
Your death exceeded by this doleful sign:
Two
bloody blocks of wood, the standing lonely cross.
You
turned despair and longing into hope; you spanned
The
chasms in our virtue with a bridge and unmanned
These
sins, incinerating with them all my guilt,
Demolishing
the awful totems I had built?
So
whence the great conundrum of my living pain
If
ransoms in your blood remove my sinful stain?
Perhaps
the blessing in the often threshing hand
Is
not the punishment I try to understand.
Instead
the truly wildest thought I can conceive
Is
that you let me feel your mortal pain and leave
My
senses to the miseries you did endure,
When
in the garden even God was so unsure.
So
in the traitor’s kiss I do betray my sin
And
castigate my scourging and I will begin
To
see that all the loud protesting that I do
Is
drowning in the mercies that have come from you.
When
you allow participation in your grief
The
lesson will endure, while yet the pain is brief. |
