The Cup That I Drink Of
To feel the lash-cuts on my naked spine, The dirty spikes that grate on human bone: To suffer for the sins that are my own— Sweet Christ, I wish so bless'd a fate were mine! My penance is to let You bear the price, To know I shoved the spear into Your side, And my worst self was laughing when You died Because I had escaped the sacrifice. Your mercy has more justice than we think; My ruined soul Your grace can surely raise, But from Your grace and mercy still I shrink— For when I meet You at the end of days, Who drank the cup that was my own to drink, How will I ever meet Your bloody gaze?
—J.B. Toner
J.B. Toner is a graduate of the school of hard knocks.
