Via de la Rosa


It seems every night, before I lay my head to rest,
I ask myself
“how can I look at myself in the mirror?”

How did it all come to this?

This reflection is a snapshot of a fading glory
whose holiness
lies dying upon the sinking horizon of dusk.
—–
Has my spirit met it’s West?
Is my cup dry and cracked?
O God I pray to you above
to renew the joy of my salvation
that I once knew and loved (which was you)

—–
Complete slavery and submission to the world
are the new banners of my cause.
Going down for a new breath of air; feeling free
as the shackles tighten
and my breaths get shorter.

How did it all come to this?
—–
Has my spirit met it’s West?
Is my cup dry and cracked?
O God I pray to you above
to renew the joy of my salvation
that I once knew and loved (which was you)

—–
How did it all come to this?

I just want to be able to look in the mirrir again.
I just want to be able to look in the mirror again
and to see you face instead . . .
—–
Lord, take this cup from my hands and let me
pour myself into it.
My last stand is here and know as I cry to be
a lighthouse rather than the waves.

I will either fail or conquer
die or live;
but either way
I’m yours

This I give for you, bearing my tree through my
“Way of the Roses”
enduring the thorns and spittle upon my face.
This I do for you.

It ends now.

Father,
into your hands I commit my spirit.

It . . .
is . . .
finished. . .

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