Lent: Man of Sorrows 1

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.

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