The Cross

*this picture was posted with permission from deyedoctor

The Cross

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Cross

            Made out of wood, iron, or string,

            looked weary around the neck of any sinner.

            Dangled side to side as it swung,

slipped, loosened, untwined from the Scapular.

 

Scapular

            Embraced firmly to the old cross,

             slipped helplessly away.

            Squeezed out all the memories within,

            the old worn out fragile string.

 

String

            Black as the hair of a damsel

            corrupted by the heart of a sinner.

            Weak as a mortal who sought redemption

            it bore the weight of the metallic Cross.

 

Cross

            Looked wearily and innocently at me

            slowly revealed its intentions.

            The framework that humbly aim to carry,

            the figure of the forgotten Christ.

 

Christ

            Humbly waited for my decisive actions

            that reflected these sins in my hands.

            It showed me the truth, reclaimed my beliefs,

            kept me alive, then I asked for forgiveness.

This poem was posted at helium