I worked on this sonnet throughout Holy Week but, as my organist schedule would have it, did not have a chance to revise and publish

Reading Life through the Greatest of Books
I worked on this sonnet throughout Holy Week but, as my organist schedule would have it, did not have a chance to revise and publish
Horrors.There is no other wordFor the things I have seen,And sat helplessly by—Useless. My own son, ripped from my armsBy a force I could not
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
People just keep goingAround, across, Any way they can.Directionless,They do not notice the manWho motionless,Waits. They step over me, Their limbs stretching usefullyEven as they
My bones ache with hunger.My eyes strain from seeking.But seeking what? Waiting for what?For nothing,For who would help me today?This is the sad irony of
Unlike that lone first star of Christmas nightThis union burns expectedly above, But like that light, this, too, shines highest, brightAnd may still testify of