Sometimes the hoods come off and all may see what lies beneath.
A brazen glare like a signal flare,
like a torch and white smoke that chokes out the air.
What is my cloak, if not white pointed sheets?
Is it a suit or a smile or a list of good deeds?
What lurker unfit for the light do I hide?
Do I secretly cling to a thing that aloud I’ve decried?
If exposed to the light
what devils alight
from my own craven soul that I indulge in the night?
Maybe you thought it’s your day in the sun,
that your ideals have just won,
when this pet beast you’ve harbored and nurtured and fed
will shine forth and be seen as a savior instead.
Oh, heart, oh broken, oh sin-darkened heart,
cry out for The Light,
for you’ve been stripped of your cover,
your self-made shield,
and had exposed to the day
all your festering wounds that so need to be healed.
And this is grace. Grace alone.
That such heads can be bowed,
that such cloaks can be burned,
that such hardness made soft,
that such ways can be turned,
that such sickness made well,
that such death be undone,
that such war end in peace,
that such enemies made sons.