Meditation XIX
O God who sits beside the shaking saint on persecution’s bloody prison floor, body ruined and reviled; who paints the stone a cruciform display, and scores a symphony from all the riven chords of suffering behind that iron door, to play it in the throne room where the Lord throws coals on retribution’s growing flame, and hones His double-bladed silver sword; who claims again for noble use the maimed and broken, torn and pierced, that by their stripes you are revealed, and their tormentors shamed; who stores up vengeance ‘til the time is ripe; have mercy. Come, Lord, soon—let go restraint. Restore your faithful. Let their tears be wiped.
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This poem was generated by the author’s human mind with zero AI / LLM involvement.
Love this meditation, especially this ending:
Come, Lord, soon—let go restraint.
Restore your faithful. Let their tears be wiped.
Dantesque in all the best ways.