Broken Grace

Broken in half

No longer whole

But wholly hole

Pock-marked

Stained

Tainted

With a malevolent brush

And wholly holy

Christ the martyr

Holy One

The One

To forgive

But not forget

What are we to do

We molest Your body

Our words foul

Our thoughts foul

Unclean hands

Unworthy

But of worth

Do you mock my despair

Upon Your cross

Holier than thou

Yes

You are

And if You mock

Then what

What is my reply

That is the question

Just

I am wrestling right now

With the Word

On High

In my heart

With my mind

Obnoxious pull

Fever pitch

A drunken fool

From what

Life’s elixir

Hope

Happenstance

A fool’s suffering

That is me—fool

Pressed for wisdom

Squeezed from pressure

But not refined gold

Instead

The pulp

The skin

The leftover sac

The wine poured

Is bitter not sweet

But it is young still

It is in middle life

Some

But some of it softening

Tannins dissipate

The whispers of a more

Pleasing bouquet emit

And then it ripens

Under constant temperature

And exposure to

Grace.

—Stephanie Sullivan, 12/3/19, 1:30 pm