As my lines breathe their last

One day, when this age breathes its last,
and dust, bones and flesh are raised again,
to stand before the seat, when each deed—
good or bad is judged, and man trembles or
rejoices, perhaps she’ll know and accept that
I loved her, with undying, unyielding, unbreakable
ardor, and though I lost my discipline now and then,
and rage surmounted my kindness, and the orange
waves of anger swept aside little seashells of
tenderness, breaking and spewing them on
shores unvisited and unguarded, she’ll know
that I cared, that I wept for the man I was,
for the pain I’d caused her, and eventually
tossed aside both salvation and my soul because
I’d rather suffer with her. ‘Give her what I
don’t deserve,’ I wept once on the floor,
‘because I’m wretched and despicable,’
I shouted aloud, and though she mocked me
later, and they’d rather believe her than me,
one day what’s hidden in the darkness will
find light, and each secret and saccharine lie,
Glory will cast down, and then in that moment,
I hope she realizes that though I was a scoundrel,
I chose the spiritual pain of not leaving her
over the beauty and riches of a God who was
willing to unconditionally love me, that I chose
eternal damnation, and wrath over leaving her
side, because she endured so much for me,
but will she know? Will him who’s sovereign
reveal to her that I chose fractured finitude over
infinite, incomprehensible beauty, and that that
sacrifice triumphs anything she did?
Or will time birth grief, and will he restore me
and say, ‘I love you more than the world
does, her included,’ and beckon me to
sever ties—though it’ll split my heart in two—
and carry out the great commission or
be a prophet of wrath?

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Protected by Copyscape

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