The Cross
Blood flowed from His palms,
ankles redly bright--
the blind first to see Him,
as lame stood upright.
The proud,
of course, they fled Him;
and the strong
more refuge in might--
while the famished
approached the pool
at His feet,
took fill
for their hunger was light.
Of this I bare witness,
recall vividly clear:
times I stuck
firm with the ground,
times suspended in air--
times I embraced
the base of the Cross...
times I fled with fear....
Copyright © Joe Dimino | Year Posted 2016
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