Beneath the cross again You fall
Your face a second time in dirt.
The weight of wood is not at all
the worst You carry; ‘tis the hurt
of love unknown, and not returned;
of those who would not light the dark
who’s dreams are spurned,
who’s life work missed the mark.
They cannot watch You stumble down
lest their failures they relive
and not in tears but in self pity, drown.
Self love is not the bane of our endeavor
But hatred of the self, a curse forever.
Poems from the Eighth Decade
Copyright © Harold Macdonald 2004 used with permission
Harold Macdonald Poetry
Ashes to Easter