Lecherous stump of flesh, knotted, rotten,
Twisted from thy flickering flirtations
With lesser lovers, leaving frostbitten
That sad little lump of palpitations.
Withered lie thy dry leaves, O heart of mine,
Deprived of all love’s life-giving waters,
For thy lovers’ drinks were as poisoned brine
That can quench no thirsting buds of flowers.
No, thou cannot sprout with bloom or beauty
But only shrink and shrivel and splinter
When thy lovers know not eternity,
That soil of the spurious soul’s Planter.
Then did the racked root of my heart find Him,
A Gardener grafting, vivifying ev’ry fallen limb.
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Photo by Dominicus Johannes Bergsma (CC BY-SA 4.0)
