guilt stings the dark
corners of my eyes, tears
slide across the lower
lid, but never fall. My scarred
hands, from offering your sin
forgiving sacrifices, attacked
by pigeons whose heads I removed
with swift twist of terrible
wrist. My scarred hands, stained
fingers, dipped again and again in blood,
flung again and again against His sharp
and demanding presence. I carry
you all on my shoulders, back across this hot
desert camp. My strength sapped,
my hands are red,
my feet blistered,
our sins forgiven.
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