Burial Oil

Make of me an anointing oil
To be poured into the wounds
That bore my name.

Who am I,
How do You count me
In Your universe?
I am nothing,
A wisp,
Mere smoke
Clouding Your heavens,
And yet,
You mount Your Cross
For me.

For me,
The nails pierce Holy Flesh.
For me , You are lifted,
And the Cross
Crashed with Your pain
Into the ground
Over the bones
Of my First Parents,
A skull fittingly,
A remembrance of their Fall,
And our perduring Fault.

My tears flow with Mary’s.
My hair hides me
From hungry eyes,
That I may be for You,
Here in this place and time.

You thirst for me.
Now may I satisfy You,
By willing our union,
And embracing
My death in Yours.

Oil and comfort,
Comfort only
The dead can know,
To be shrouded away
Until the Day.

Copyright 2012 Joann Nelander
All rights reserved


This is the 29th week over at the  Poetry Picnic .  Drop in for a feast.

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