What ponderous love is this?
A love that scolds and shames,
and casts aspersions in the name
That lays a path of petals, beckoning me to
take rest in a minefield
bedecked as pastel Spring.
This is the love of a misshapen god, indeed, and only,
whose commandments of brittle obedience peck at the heart;
whose comfort never comes;
whose judgments scorch like jagged bolts.
Before you, I have made endless altars of supplication.
I have no more hopes to sacrifice;
they mound now, as ashes, about my feet.
So, I will be remade, not in your graven image
but, turned by my own hand, and
fired in the kiln of compassion.