You dwell in
sorrow, and so
I cannot understand
You, because
I want to
live in mansions
and laugh,
laugh because
I am free from
trying.
But You died
and You bled—
what are my
frustrations
in comparison
to yours on
that day?
How can
I know four-
pointed shame—
when did any
of my failures
turn into glory?
I cannot
see how my
sad face can
make my
heart glad,
but I do
know that in
sadness I
have chosen
my unhappiness
over ignorance.
Yet, it is
good to
know that
my life is
not supposed
to be a
mansion filled
with laughter, for
that is my death.
Could you
take me to
the dark
sadness—to
its eaves and
heavy cloaks.
What is it
here, there
that I do not
see, that I
don’t under-
stand.
You made
a perfect
man divined
to fall, and
it is beautiful
and sad.
Do I
know sorrow
enough to
know You?