Forgiveness, Lord’s a morsel dipped
in wine and handed, sopping, to
he who betrays you, who can’t see
the gift of you that’s placed in hands
that many times have compassed yours
and shared your work and those of whom,
though near you now, too soon will run
when garden depths of olive peace
are broken by the tramp of feet
and fire brands and weapons’ clash
that — angry turn-coats — heal no harms,
or one who in his fear denies
at sunrise what should be proclaimed
and led from dark with cock’s bright crow.
Forgiveness, Lord, is like an ear
restored to one who yet may hear.
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