So what if I can't see the top unlit
I am still looking up and to the cross
I find my way up to the foot of it
Imagining it rendered in stained glass.
The top of it eludes my mortal stuff
Its blood stained holes in wood must be up there
Though I can't see, what trickles down's enough
I may preserve the image I have here
Of sacrifices I've not made (but why?)
Of resurrection of myself in Him,
Of my eternal life connected by
Immortal death that's distant now, and dim.
The cross's top is there, it's what I reach for
The cross's top, unlike its foot is splendour.
YOU ARE READING
Chronicles of the Dark Night of the Soul
PoetryDark Night of the Soul is a classic piece of Christian literature. It discusses an experience that seems to come to all of us sooner or later. I wrote two response poems, and so I have posted the original, by St. John of the Cross, and the two re...
