Do you remember the light from whence you shone?
Do you have any remembrance
of that bright womb cradling you before you were?
What did your mother whisper in her birthing groans to make you hate her so?
Will she squeeze love from you as water from a stone?
I am sorry that you wept at Moses' blows when words would suffice;
but hate, hate mothers? Hate bruised, discolored self?
Hate God that he is not obeyed?
He does not see, but fear unblinded sight; not all feet are shy of Damascus.
Your hold is not so deep that a lion cannot draw you from his back by the throat.
This fire will burn, see all your ashes out upon a forge's breath!
You would have martyred impure ore, but perfect gold comes of it!
Golgatha taught you what you have not learned.
Persecution is the maidenhead of grace
that bleeds when it is pierced.