Though Her Sins are Many...

Your grace is a thing I can’t comprehend,
So I will hate myself instead
And spit on this precious freedom You gave,
As if it’s just part of some bargain we made.

Why do I keep going on as if
I could bleed enough to pay for this?
Or if I could make my scars match Yours,
I’d owe any less than the lowest of whores?

I look up from scrubbing these wounds to find
That You have sorrowfully knelt beside.
“Why are you troubled?” Your whisper’s a mourn;
“Here now are My feet, My hands and bones.
I died so that you could stop living this way,
And, though scars remain, your sins are erased.”