Blissful Sight

Well, I can't stop thinking about Good Friday stuff, so here's another poem on the subject.

Only when I know, at least in part, how

Bitter the cup’s contents, one tiny drop

dripped on mine infant tongue, held double fast

on my Father’s lap;

Only when I hear how quick the echoes

die from dashing themselves upon the rocks

in the empty vale, free reign to wander

foolishly taken;

Only when I see how the God-Man’s flesh

does not admit willingly the spear’s blade,

the sight hitting before the stench of blood

shed on my request;

Only then, O God, can I start to see

the insufficiency of all my woe,

all my joy, and try again to give all

up, and count you alone as my solace,

all my strength and hope.