The Sacred Wounded Heart

The Wounded Sacred Heart O bleeding heart, celestial bright, Pierced by thorns of mortal plight, A wound that sings, yet bears no cry, A love unchained, yet bound to die. O sacred pulse, divine yet torn, A rose in flames, a crown forlorn, What grief must God Himself endure, To heal the world through wounds so pure? Does pain eternal touch the sky, Or do the stars in anguish sigh? Does mercy weep in crimson streams, To mend the dust of broken dreams? Beyond the veil, beyond the sun, Where time and sorrow fade to none, Thy wound, O Heart, a gateway be, To light, to love, to explore O Heart of fire, yet torn apart, A bleeding rose, a crimson art, The pulse of God in sorrow’s tide, Where love and agony abide. Thy wound—a door to realms unseen, Where mercy flows in streams serene, A paradox of grief and grace, A wounded God with shining face. O sacred breach, O holy pain, From Thee all life must rise again, Thy suffering, the stars embrace, Yet time dissolves within Thy grace. What mystic truth in sorrow lies? A love that bleeds, yet never dies. A wound that heals, a death that sows, The dawn of hope where darkness grows. O Heart divine, by anguish crowned, Through Thee, all broken souls are found. In wounds more vast than time or space, We glimpse the endless arms of grace.