Wednesday, February 24, 2016


If I was like beloved John,
I'd know where I would stand:
Always knowing His affection.

Or even Cain, his brother gone
(Further, by his own hand).
Exiled, yet under protection.

But no, I feel like Lazarus
Entombed, and thus, not there
To hear His grief-filled cry

Now, stumbling through the stench of pus,
A foul shroud all I wear.
I'm saved, alive, but know not why.

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