By fiat She came, by heart He was bound,
Floating now over the ground,
High as a kite with nature’s great worth,
Loving the presence of the sweet-smelling earth.
Abundant in beauty, then shocking grey skin—
He, the man of original sin;
Of mystery, manner, cause and affect,
A hand He has raised to write with effect.
Considering now the death He must face,
The strain—weeping now—in pain and distaste;
She looked on in worry, then in despair, and then grief,
As the blood splattered down on the stones there beneath.
Labile and feckless, a life of depletion,
But gadgets and garbage: a compensating accretion;
For a lifeless life, now a deathless death,
His panting first violent, now shallow of breath.
Proclamations made, and promises too,
Of abiding forgiveness, He gave unto you;
But mediocrity swam in from the distant grey yonder,
And now you realise: it’s this gift you now squander.