I’m postulate and engraved in me is your cross

On my hands and forehead they appear to thyne eye

You bless me to curse me with ink so deep

Lord, I honor you with my well

I stand at my fountain and in it dwells

The battles I’ve won and sultry seen

So keeps my foot to the ground

In accordance to what is round

I’ve found the best place is on my knees

This leaves me in a heap of flowers

So whimsical their bliss inaugurates your taste.

And distant is the grace surreal

As she offers a hail my way,

So tender and full of thy kiss,

Sits with her your sword of truth.

Lord, if Honor and grace are suit,

then be it your will that I am renewed in both


Posted by in Poetry