This poem breathes an agonizing portrait with tension so well woven that when I reached "Finished," I felt hot years on my cheeks, stumbling for words to convey my grieving. There were no words, save the tears. Furthermore, the poem holds my rapt attention as if I were standing to honor Christ whose life is mine and mine is his.
This poem breathes an agonizing portrait with tension so well woven that when I reached "Finished," I felt hot years on my cheeks, stumbling for words to convey my grieving. There were no words, save the tears. Furthermore, the poem holds my rapt attention as if I were standing to honor Christ whose life is mine and mine is his.