Sonnet (12.28.05)

There is no extrinsic path to virtue,

Our wicked blood will always flow

And all the preachers' admonitions

To culture break on mocking stone.

Come, Christ, transfuse my gangrenous flesh

Before it withers, fill with life.

Before I die (I know my need)

Reknit my bones, the lame will walk.

The Word that makes the soul His home

Enters with more than killing knife.

As moss grows in cracks within the stone,

It breaks and brings the dead to life.

Only the one who knows the Master

Can love and do the Master's will.