Good Friday

There is profusion in the Father’s love.
He pours it out in spates and throngs and swarms,
He breeds it like the insects in the air,
He wrings it with the torrents from the storms.
He hates no thing. The base, the mean and low
Grow like the grass. He multiplies the thorns,
He blesses every stalk, each lifted reed,
Each blow, each bruising on the brow, each wound:
For Christ bore such profusion on His head
As there are flies in stench, or worms in mud—
Harms more than all men’s sins, and everywhere
Aspurging sprays of blood, of blood, of blood
(One little droplet would have raised the dead).
And here, beyond all other things, we know
There is profusion in the Father’s love.

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About middlingpoet

From the Gawain poet to Rainer Maria Rilke: I love traditional poetry.
This entry was posted in Church Year, Holy Week and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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