The Paradox of Passion: A Lovenote

I confess I’m far more wretched than the rest

I am bruised and sore, my clothing’s torn

And it was I who fought your reign

I was first to speak against you —

Planting lies and falsifying

Dissenting, scorning, mutinying, warring

By the laws, I am guilty of a traitor’s crime

I have committed the highest infidelity  

For as you sheltered and promoted,

Displayed the degree to which you were devoted

All the while I tore your flag and led the onslaught

I spit on you, King Arthur’s Lancelot

I have nothing more to offer now

My list of crimes I loath to disavow

With muddied hands, and face, and tears

I detest my rejecting you these years

I abandon myself at your gate    

Professing I deserve this fate

In all my muck and all my mire, from my insurgence I retire

Now my sentence I implore you must fulfill

Do with me, my King, as you will.

Yet what is this? What grace astounding?

You pull me off the ground without chastising

With goodness, glee, and loving embrace

You extend your scarlet finery to wipe this face

You lead me through a narrow, golden entryway 

Bidding your royalty to celebrate

Through gardens ripe with fragrant apple trees

Whereby caressing verdant leaves, the breeze

Drifts on clouds the words from thee

“Dearest beloved, come with me”

You beckon me into a jeweled throne room

Clothing me in riches and the sweetest perfumes            

Whereby in the ardor of your glorious glow

My bloodied garments are transfigured white as snow

“My clumsy heart is ignorant of loving well,” I whisper

But this beauty you possess you thus impart in splendor

While I yet stumble, you are yet tender

To this fragile course you have surrendered

And while my persecutors protest at your gate

Contesting that you every breach of mine restate

With tears and delight you adorn me in your inheritance

You choose to lay a feast for me at your expense

Here – you sit me at your table

At your worthiest place of honor

While you serve me with your own hands

And remind me to call you Father

Your hands – that yet bear the scars of my own treachery

Of abuse deserving punishment and beggary  

A shame you smile and say to wipe from memory

While you recite a narrative of love to me

And speak with me and laugh with me

And rave of your delight in me

For you have forgotten all that I have done to thee

The more I am unworthy

The more you say

I am worth your mercy.