Praying on my knees,
alone in these pathetic pews,
cowed under your cross.
I take a vow of silence,
hushed by the immensity of you.
No curse escapes these lips
even as they bleed.
Your sermons so convincing,
rattling over each gifted blow –
confession and concussion.
I accept each biblical bruise,
everything happens for a reason.
I cover up the communion cuts,
gaping gospels that lie open –
the welts of worship left behind.
I keep the stigmata secret;
polish the nails until no trace is left.
Sacrament scars ornament the mass
of my impure body, this corpse.
You always rise again and again,
more God-like every time.
Still this devotion won’t die,
praying on my knees.
Written by Kirsty Niven – Dundee, Angus, United Kingdom
Feature Photo by Soul.photobr
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As a heathen, this is eye-opening level of tormented devotion. It reminds me of my mother, who endured an unfaithful husband, a paralyzed son, the illness and death of another son, stillbirth of her first grandchild, severe birth defect of second grandchild, and loss of her husband … all before age 69. And She never lost her faith in God.
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