March 30, 2007
Swift she comes ere Niagra's drop
rapids to ferry the lukewarm,
a smudge of care upon your brow
like some elemental form.
Long those pentitent lines do beg--
not to receive the Christ but dust,
that which we are and shall return
a heedless death to self we must.
“All times the same” is rank presumption
Pray God the holy tithe be kept,
deny no grace that we have coming
this time, this Lent, we do accept.
And as the expiration nears
the soul sings minor chords,
yet if the horse prepares for battle
the victory shall be the Lord’s.
And when the gooseflesh starts to prickle
at the cries of days of yore,
the Holy Wounds assure the fickle
it was our sins that He bore.
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