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Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Religious · #2038221
A religious sonnet written on Good Friday
Your Son hangs dead upon His bloody cross,
So now I turn to you, his mother pure.
I force myself to see that bitter loss
That I have caused and He alone could cure.
I stand aright, I am too low to kneel,
And with a voice still full of Satan's pride
I dare to sink my fangs into your heel,
And tell for whom your only Son has died.

I am the writhing worm that dieth not,
A hollow shell all eaten out with lust,
Infecting all I touch with putrid rot,
And destined only to return to dust.
But baser still is what I yet shall do,
To beg forgiveness from your Son, and you.
© Copyright 2015 Demolition Dan (dgcollins at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://shop.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2038221-Good-Friday-Sonnet