Epistle Xviii - the Abandoned Son

I. Father, my knees quiver and quake, they bend then break like a reed ensnared in the tempest’s throes II. My sanguine palms, stammering in fear of Your reprisal, whimper in their muted state, rendered silent by their barbarity III. This timber crucifix, once a cradle of joy, is now the abandoned son, that I cast into the death’s churning maelstrom IV. Father, do not grant me the might to bear this albatross but subdue me so I may find relief in my tribulation, as I stencil the crooked contours of who I used to be, in thy celestial image V. Lo! In scorn’s sepulchral chambers, I feast upon derision, quaffing the sting of suffering, the choicest sustenance for Christian discipleship