Untitled as of yet.

The only poem I've ever written about Christ

Your sacrifice was of a tortured demand.  The pain inside of you leaps onto to the foreground; at my feet lies your face.  Upon your lips is the dirt from my heals.  I try to lift you from your position, settled as a slave; I ask you to stand beside me but rather you go within.  I hear your voice from time to time, you always speak of the greater truth.  My questions, this doubt, it rages and ravages your perfect presence, yet you comfort me with the stillness of your silence.  When content with the peace you bring I see you.  Your arms outstreched to the edges of my heart.  Your head is held hight, not with pride but wisdom.  I look into your eyes and I see myself there, and hope, and promise.  Finally, there is rest.