(Poetic form: heroic couplets, iambic pentameter)
I, weary from the day's events, retreat With symptomatic inner ache, to meet My Best Friend halfway in the honey-light Under a quiet lamp. Oh, but He's bright, Too. Opening his word, I plead that this Cold, shriveled heart would beat beneath the kiss Of his presence, warming and leaning in To learn the rhythm of the cost of sin. For though I (and I do) list every wrong, And read the law, which has condemned me long Ago, and tremble at the chasm of Humiliation due me--yet, above The law, stands Christ, extending down, with pride, His scepter, granting pardon to His Bride. His ugly, very human, wayward whore Of a beloved Bride. That's me. The more I fail, the more his mercy proves His worth: More than enough. Thus, fleeing from the mirth And gluttony of my one wasted life I seek His face to learn again what "wife" Means. His joy, fierce and free, floods through my soul, For he will yet re-make our union whole.