The Curse and the Crimson Dawn

In the rancid swamp of our own spite,

We spew a curse, sour as blight.

Sin’s jagged chains, cold and slick with grime,

Clank through our bones, gnawing time.  

The law’s voice booms, a molten roar,

Its syllables scorch, charring core.

Each guilt a splinter, sharp with rust,

Each wrong a shovel, grinding dust.  

Yet through the reek of sulfur’s haze,

A dawn ignites, its beams ablaze.

Christ strides through gloom, His forehead gashed,

Thorns bite His scalp where blood-drops splash.  

His cross towers high, rough-hewn and red,

Splinters stained where His life has bled.

Our sins, like nails, pierce sinew and scream,

Yet His torn flesh unlocks our dream.  

No more the stench of sin’s dank hold,

Nor law’s shrill screech, its edges cold.

We rise, unchained, lungs filled with dew,

Skin warmed by grace, our pulse renewed.  

Oh, fool’s delusion, to shrink His might,

To doubt His wounds could rout our night!

For Christ’s bright blood drowns death’s cruel sting,

And from our curse, makes anthems spring.