It’s funny how writing begets writing.
How when one begins to bleed new blood
It comes forth glistening clear.
I came to you as a maid still burning
And hope you whispered in my ear.
Do not forget my weary soldier.
Heart that in the hills may cry.
Beget the tears upon the paper
That healing may come ever
When eyes are dry.
Come to me in the Crucifix
And see the blood at my side
And when the pen calls for blood
and water-Run yours out
From the same tide.
For in the majesty of My Holy Face
Comes radiant beauty
In all you do, and without me
You’ll find a place
Who you always
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