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Thomas David Dec 2019
I turn to red at beauty’s peak
With warmth, my leaves wear wanton streak
Of golden, gloried, armor ‘splayed
Adorned by flame’s immortal blade.
But fire is weak to water’s burn
So though I glow ‘gainst grass and fern
Reflecting rays of Thursday light
On loftened winds, a raisėd kite
A single splash of freshened sigh
Will swiftly cast my leaves awry.

O gloried, many-colored coat!
That Father through incarnate note
Composes of the deadened leaves
That up a hill my Saviour heaves;
You hid my shame at garden’s end!
Why can’t you mend this twisted bend?
Why can you not, accessory,
Re-tailor tailor’s imagery?
Or pound these hands so deeply pricked
Before the wrongful fruits be picked?

Remember Friday’s curtain ripped
The gambled robe the soldiers stripped;
No cov’ring, cloak, imputed cloud
Can blur or bow a beast unbowed.
A garment’s graze may sickness stave,
But it was left inside the grave!
Instead I see His ruptured side
Ascend with Him to be His Bride.
If crowned into that image lanced
One climbs to where no cloak advanced.

The tree’s no trick: not cheaply tried
It is man’s fate indemnified.
T’was Adam’s fate to **** his God—
Beyond which nought can e’er be awed—
His choice fulfilled in depths of hell
Where tortured, godless Adams dwell.
But choice fulfilled in parallel
By tortured, godless, Christ as well.
My soul will with the former fade
Or will be nailed to latter’s clade.

So shed my reddened leaves, O Lord!
And make me face the snows unmoored
From comforts, calm, conveying no
Dependence on the ground below.
My feet no longer need be shod:
They’ll hang with His, pierced with their God
Below the tortured martyr’s cry
Where Perfect Blood will sanctify.
I praise, I’ll praise you for the night:
Though I sin more, my sin I fight.
We are justified by Christ's suffering through our own.

— The End —