The Crucifix
and morning light mellowed by leaded saints, all seems in order, as it should, except the votive flame in beating play and you upon the spar in disarray. I look upon what I have made, (vain to deny my hasty chop), see the works of love let rot, and rue. Starving eyes in fleshy face--to grope from need to hope of grace-- did something like move you? © Dale R. Hobson. All rights reserved. |