Cymbeline

You do not see a face that doesn’t frown.

   You do not know how deep the wound will go

Until you’re stabbed—or even how far down

   You’ll fall, until you’re pushed there by some foe

Who makes you see this world’s a twisted plot

   Where faith turns into hatred on a dime—

Where grief and growth are tangled in a knot

   That cannot be untied but in good time.

And when all’s been unraveled, what’s revealed

   But that design which under chaos dreams

That death’s a sentence that can be repealed

   And love a tree that shelters and redeems.

      Hang there like fruit, my soul, till that tree die;

      Pardon’s the word for all, from low to high.

 

Copyright 2015 Matthew J Wells