Poetry

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In her buried dreams,
He came to her
He held her limp frame,
Poured on her, myrrh

A groan from her lips,
He understood
Extracting the pois’n
He drank her wound

Then pressing His palm
Upon the skin
Over her sick heart,
She writhed for sin

When she fell tired
Within His arms
He cried over her
His tears, her charm

He carried her through
the gate, His love!
He laughed and He awed,
His long lost dove!

He wrapped her in silk
And spoke her name
With His broad hand, then
He grazed her mane

Alas, it's a dream
A blissful dream
One that was with her,
lone by the stream

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