Sonnet to Jesus
You love me with far greater eloquence
Than ever could be wrote or sung or said-
A shame, a sketch, a shade of a pretence
Of love due You who bore our death instead.
A beam, a cloud, a constellations' spark -
Small tokens of the least of flames in You.
No misery, no fear, no trace of dark
For You are ever pungent, sweet and true.
Yet You would have me try to tell Your worth -
You do not scorn my lispers, my stammerd pen;
Though wretchedly Your Name I used to curse
You take no rest til I might call You freind.
My love for You could never be but poor
Till in eternity, reflecting Yours.
