wounded, I have bent to taste
the crimson liquid of your grace
your wind-worn flesh, the thorny brow
which marked your kingship then and now
worthless, I have taken hold
the threads of mercy from your robe
your ruined hands, your gaping side
and pledged myself your sullied bride
weary, I have given up
the poison of my rightful cup
the curse of death, the shroud of sin
to die and, in You, live again



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