Thursday, January 22, 2004

How can love be such beauty,
such a measure of the world, so light, so full, so free?
Yet love makes slaves.

‘Tis death for sure, in cloaked form, emblazoned red…
Upon an upraised cross.

Love is not life, but death…
Death to self. And death in love is life.
Such a masquerade of happiness and peace,
Stripped away as fullness comes through pain...

Love never dies, but bears all, believes all, hopes all,
endures all, never fails…

All the world is measured in its weight…

Death for another’s life—None has greater love.

How can we but love
Love? Yet how can we but hate love?
‘Tis death for sure.


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