The Shroud

                   Come close and I'll tell you the tale of a soul
                   That made deconstruction its primary goal;
                   I punctured the days of a desolate life
                   With pride as my axe and rebellion my knife.

                   These howling regrets were the hounds on my path -
                   They nipped at my heels with their verdicts of wrath.
                   I fled my accusers to memory's tomb
                   And there wove a shroud in the shadowy gloom.

                   I hid in the shroud, it was all that I knew,
                   But I had forgotten what shrouds tend to do -
                   It tangled around me and crippled my mind
                   Constricting my hope in a strangling bind.

                   Then one day arose a great rumbling sound:
                   A cross had been driven deep into the ground.
                   The earth split in two and a riverbed formed
                   Below a black sky where a thunderhead stormed.

                   Liquid flowed past me and dirt became mud;
                   I shuddered, for this was a river of blood.
                   And there on the surface an image appeared,
                   A gravestone upon which my own name was seared.

                   I saw rolling by in an unending scene
                   The sins of my lifetime exposed on the screen.
                   And as I cried out, “God, I can’t bear the sight!”
                   The crest of a wave put the image to flight.

                   A voice pealed like thunder and echoed out loud:
                   “I’ve given you much, will you give me that shroud?”
                   I hurled it down into the river’s vast flow
                   And watched as the eddies all started to slow.

                   And then I beheld a remarkable sight –
                   The blood became crystal, infusing with light.
                   The crystal turned solid and smooth as a glass
                   And then I was granted permission to pass.

                   I crossed with relief and expected to find
                   That yesterday’s sorrows were left far behind.
                   But there on the bank, glowing bright as a strobe
                   Was the shroud of my tale woven into a robe.

                   The voice said: “You now have a story to tell,
                   If only you’ll steward your history well.
                   Your pain will bring healing through what I have done
                   To all who will see you in light of the Son!”