Sanctus

He was wounded by our transgressions and crushed for our inequities; by His wounds were we healed.

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Those that live by the sword

Die by the sword

 

In these hands I hold

The dove

Of human kind-ness

 

I kiss her

Behind the ear

And whisper

Sweet nothing

In her ear

 

Now bearing the infinite

I set her free

 

To seek

 And

 …….. to find

 

In the whip and the nail

Of my Passion

And the silence

That would not

To speak

 

For to sully

The silence

With the earth bound

Sound

 

Of words

 Touches not

 

And they know not

What they do

 

For the spoke

Of it

Unwinds

 

And to Caesar

Must I go….

 

For the hands

Of it are washed

 

Yet the clean

Is yet to seen

 

Sanctus

 Sanctus

 Dominus

 

Into your hands

I commend my spirit

 

And so with it

As you will

 

For your will

And NOT

Mine

Be done

This day

 

THAT which

Comes from

Above

Now

 

Now be done

 And I will

 I will

 Bring

 The sword

 

Of MY truth

To bear

 

For my arm

Is rested

 And

 Now ready

 

In the darkest

Tomb

I have wandered

 

And now found

 It

 It

 Begins

A Rose in Winter

This is my first attempt at “creative” writing nearly twenty years ago. It was the first time that I let myself go. It was written in the second attention entirely in dreaming symbols.

—————-
The rose is indeed fragile and delicate. It needs nurturing so that as it first breaks through the soil of history it can reach upwards to the heavens, to reach for the stars. Yet onward and upward it grows. From the seed it begins to take form and shape. As it grows, delicate and vulnerable at first, it moves ever onwards. It battles with the winds that blow it this way and that. Yet the stem grows stronger. It puts forth leaves to soak up the sun of new experience. Each morning it makes the choice. The one of what was before and what is new. When it has grown enough it begins to bud. The hip is formed and the nascent flower begins to take shape, all the while pressing against the cloak that en-folds it. 

Then one cold morning the cloak is torn. There is a sound of leaves unfolding. The gentle un-fold-ment of what must be. The petals begin to spread their wings, first tentative, yet soon with strength. The flower begins to take shape. It is yellow and vital. At this stage the cold frosts of winter still plague it. Soon the warmth of spring is upon it and the colour deepens, then the fragrance. At first it is mild, soon oh so soon, it is heady, intoxicating and so sweet.

As each new petal of a relationship takes shape, it is indeed a delicate time, yet given enough space the petals grow. Each one is so. Each one needs care.

And yes, there is that crown, the one with thorns.
I no longer want that crown. It has served its purpose.

Where lies my flower, the flower that is ME? 

It is throwing off its mantle. I unfurl my protective coat. I want so much to bloom. Yet his-story holds me back. The movement sweeps away the chains of his-story, that old familiar one that begins “Once upon a time”, the story that supports my view of Alan. The one that says Alan does NOT deserve.

The Unknown beckons, I feel her fingers drawing me on.
They tap out a rhythm that I cannot resist. For such is the power of love, that which I have denied MYSELF for so long.

I feel like a willow whose leaves hang over a stream. Soon that stream will become a river. A river that fights against the banks that hold it, that becomes a surging torrent of THE passion and I will dance THAT dance.

The ONE that I have searched for, for SO long