What fuels my pride is nothing like
what You gave up – true God, true man –
when you bowed as low as bowing goes,
as low as heaven spans.
What strikes my face is feather-like
beside the spear that pierced Your side;
my burdens roll onto the floor
beside the death You bore.
What mercy waits, my God, my God,
at bleeding, nailed, twisted feet,
is life abundant; this is death
which, dying, we call life.
The Consolations of Writing 