Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Thoughs on a Summer Morning

Lord, worthy, merciful and true, you pick up pieces,
all my shattered, mismatched pieces and mend my life.
But, Potter whose hands shape high and stately vessels,
why would you come to save these shards of mine
when, Wounded King, mine are the jagged bits
that tore your feet, when you limped up that hill?

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