Stop, the priest said.
He does not ask you to beat yourself.
Your heart is grieved; that is good.
Now turn your heart to Him.
Leave your prison, he said.
They trap you here and scourge you, but
You can love those who are scourged.
Your heart is wounded; turn your heart,
Turn your heart to love.
And so the broken soldier went
With cloaks to give the naked
And hands to wash the wounded, heart
Enlarged by wounds to welcome in
The broken and the scourged.
The Consolations of Writing 