The Wedding Feast

 

I held the true cross in my paw,

A trinket then and little more,

My hands and those of Constantine,

A first resistance hold the line.

 

St Mark’s stone coffin at my feet,

The round from baptism complete,

His hand in Christ’s this hand of mine,

Yet I resist and hold the line.

 

I read the book, I found it wise,

A thing of truth, a pack of lies,

The fatted calf, the thinning kine,

My heart resists I hold the line.

 

Gods love a truth that sets men free,

Subservient we bend the knee,

What better love where lives entwine,

Why then resist why hold the line.

 

The knives of dogma bare my bones,

Adulterous I cast my stones,

These bitter scriptures, corded twine,

I will resist and hold the line,

 

And yet I find bright meadows there,

Some pathways freed from every snare.

Beatitudes now wholly mine,

Should I resist and hold the line.

 

A wedding feast for every day,

Bright bridal rings for things of clay,

I drink the dregs of Cana’s wine,

But still resist and hold the line.

 

Unworthy, sometimes; sometimes just,

This slave to avarice and lust,

The devil knows me gut and spine,

I own resistance, hold the line.

 

My best is hope, some hope in love,

I raise my eyes to things above,

I cast my hate to raging swine,

I shall resist and hold the line.

 

With wit I write each platitude,

In verses cryptic, crass and crude,

To sugar sweetness words refine,

I can resist, I hold the line.

 

My fingers held that cross of pain,

Some bleaching for a stubborn stain,

But life has taught and I define,

I'm poor resistance to the line.