the death of death himself

an easter reflection
 
cut roses from my hand dead at your door,  
once-fragrant sentiments withered and lost;  
alas! you do not love me anymore:
though i relent, there is no pentecost.  
 
good-friday judgments leave my soul condemned
to bear sharp nails and thorns i scarce have earned;
for innocence you cannot comprehend,  
three death-dark days - my breath from me adjourned.  
 
i claim my own, my own receives me not;
a wanderer, no place to lay my head,  
through desert-fasting maze and camel's knot
sifted, i hang upon the dogwood, dead.  
 
still, i forgive you, for you know not what
you do, for whom this bitter cup i drink;
my Father does not misappropriate
the price i pay to save men from the brink.  
 
i die not with the death of death himself,  
nor lives he in my resurrection morn;
poor have i come, bequeathing all my wealth
that you may know what shame my love has borne.
 
© Copyright 2023 March 03
by Clyve A. Bowen