The “wounded surgeon” works while I’m awake And only by compassion does not break The heart which beat so steady yet so dead While severed
Touch me, someone,That I might know you’re there! Greet me, anyone,So I am not aloneIn this dark, dark, darkness. I am begging,Begging for more than
Unclean,I hide myself.Lest I am seenAnd sent away,Purged from the cityWhile dogs and rats are allowedTo stay and hide in its alleys, Infect its crevices.
As so often happens, life took priority over poetry. Indeed, I fear this is one of the reasons I am not destined to be the
Reformation Sunday always startles me into awe. As a staunch rule-follower, I am constantly shocked by the reminder of God’s grace in Christ. Of course,