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That death’s a sentence that can be repealed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