In Your eyes flows a river of love, but I cannot look at them.

I picture You hiding Your face from me, but Your eyes still implore me to come.

You shrink as if in my fear I have made myself larger than You.

The hurt is mine, not Yours.

I want to hold onto it for a moment more.

As if there is just one thing that Your scourging did not cover,

That in Your death there was not given the opportunity for freedom.

But it is not my flesh You seek after.

It is my spirit.

And as the child in my womb leaps at the sound of Your name,

So I long for my spirit to always do the same.