My God, How It Hurts
We have forgotten
How dangerous is this man
Refusing not to do miracles
Abjuring not to love
Going beyond His mother's pain
Beyond being a good son
To do the Father's will.
We have forgotten
The depth of evil
He allowed to drench Him
Bleed and bruise Him
Beyond all human endurance
Gleefully denying Him
For whom He was born to be.
We have forgotten
The love of the Father
So fully developed for us
He had to turn away
At that moment on the cruel cross
When God-given life
Was given up.
We have forgotten
How dangerous is this man
Whose love was more than life
This Son of God
Whose promise to us meant so much
That He shrugged off death
And He arose.
by E. Marshall Evans
Who shall dare to die or to love among the Furies?
Not carry us by lustiness rather by the purpose, wisdom
Whose radiant rage welcomes you and the ambiguities?
And if that unfair, dropsy with pain, then none creates martyrdom;
To recall part of our age, oh bone! The hide prize
From our own mistake in front of the angers and crimes
Aside what left, for in the bloody world that appear to allegorize
And the hate melt cannot freeze from the above cleomes;
Remember we pass through, seal by a target unseen
From a God to subserve in massive, superlove, with such thing
Longingly upon the unforgiving hills from that delirious tween
Of the idea, screaming from every angles the abjuring
Horizon in red; and throw into inflammation,
A day end, nothing to reconcile, a caste of passion.