The Faces of Love
By: Angie Wiranata
November 8th, 2024
At world’s end
stood I with grief
and lump on my throat:
Has life no trace of love,
has Sheol erased His name?
Alas! Two things too wonderful to me;
three I do not understand:
Her hand, a mother’s wrath,
Her
sorrow ran so keen,
Then
wept, she healed her child,
With
tears to mend his skin
A father’s trade by day,
By
night a bread he blazed,
A
smile to make a home,
A
smile the eyes ungrazed.
A friend who bore the blame,
And
gave his life in kind,
For
him who dealt the wound,
Yet
had no right to boast.
He
stood to shield his own,
With
heart so pure and blind,
To
guard against the guilt,
He
who deserves it most.
What wonder, what beauty!
For love to be free,
to feel, conceal, and heal,
to use, abuse, and bruise,
yet love forever holds
a value more than life,
a weight worth more than gold.
What wonder, what beauty!
For love be clothed
With martyrdom,
and grief-kissed skin.
Marvel! Marvel!
For have thee not heard:
That no plum unstoned,
As no rose unthorned,
As no bird unboned?
Yet, was it not stone,
which plum may be?
And was it not thorn,
The guard of its bloom?
And was it not bone,
That sets a flight to wing?
At world’s end
I stand as I behold:
‘tis love’s scarred face;
Whom once I know of,
now here I have known:
for who could fathom,
for who dare capture
the faces of love
and His lonely offices?
Fin.
