When I have lost everything, and understood
the valiance of my soul. That I didn’t wait
for the spring to come to see the seeds
sprout into proud and tender saplings
Did I think pride was in suffering so much
and never gaining anything from it, but the
tenderness of being nothingness, like an
old warrior who wants to accept no gifts,
not even to lick his wounds? I can presume
such power now, of a God who became powerless
And even set his anointed Kings to be free
to do their own thing. How should he weigh his will
upon them, when he doesn’t even exert his will
upon himself? Just to think that winter has come
And a prison is like a freedom, because one has
a freedom in the mind. So long is a story of tribulation;
Is there any happiness in its dissipation out of loss?
Would you believe that God would never call anyone else God,
even in slavery? Because he realised his Godhood in his being the slave.
You think God’s loss has made him any figuratively obsequious?
He is made from vegetation that is far more resilient than the hardest
crystal that came out of his form. But he understands the test of time!
As if there was no golden crown to be sought after, but that of thorns
And his throne was a litltle rickety chair, that fell apart some time ago
But still he rested on a bed of nails. Would you give him credit
for a prolonged cold falling on his soul; and would you empathise
with the warmth of his unshed tears and enduring love for all he lost!
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