... Walls of gloom diffused the matted glass -
Profoundly inlaid in the Matin hours.
Of still green wood the log roughly hewn
Rests down its weight, dreadful to the angle
Of immolation - dire segments of pain,
Clutched agony as no life could have lived.
Dank and dolorous dotting the landscape
Of the visioned heart, collapsed in grim sky
And torn remnants of ignominious grief.
"My flesh is studded with thorns, luminous
Wounds that drip the ointment of redemption;
My film expires but in a holy mist,
Flame of flesh-colored to new life transpires,
Emerging from this poor clay of grandeur."
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