TITLE: For Love That Wept And Died Upon A Cross
By Yvonne Osborne
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For Love That Wept And Died Upon A Cross
Upon the waste lands near the lowering skies,
Weave the giant diggers, dipping slow,
Above the steel jaws the seagull flies,
Far from metal giants to and fro.
Tarnished tins of jagged edge and stagnant breath,
Paper drifts in blooded tears of snow,
In rags, obscene, a twisted doll in death
Smiles her rigid smile of long ago.
The diggers dig, relentless predators
That push them deep and deeper still beneath,
Against the stormy sky the giant roars,
Weaving on the purple thread of grief.
Within the bulging plastics fast congealed,
Spills the filth that bursts the ties that bind,
Onward press the diggers in the field,
Below, the sifting stench of humankind.
Upon a shrouded hill a rugged cross,
That could not hold the Lamb upon it slain,
Casts its mighty shadow o’er the dross,
The sentinel of sin and inner shame.
Across the silted land a gentle breath,
Breathes the fragrant Spirit o’er the flood,
Lifting up the children out of death,
Covered by the all redeeming blood.
Praise to Thee oh glorious Son of Man,
That sins of scarlet shall be white as snow,
And every name is carved upon thy hand,
And in thy presence every knee shall bow.
Oh praise thee Lord of Hosts for heaven’s claim,
That not one child of yours may e’er be lost,
Victory is ours and heaven’s gain,
For Love that wept and died upon a cross.
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