Don’t be afraid; and never yield to hate,
whilst knowing love, appearing so pristine,
contrasted to a thing as desolate
as death, that faker some men think supreme,
as if it were the arbiter of time.
When trapped, I feel all enmity and loss,
and disillusion like a nauseous crime
against the innocent—but see a cross;
And think of how He suffered there, alone
and as a man, but more. To writhe, and fail,
and give himself away as if unknown,
beyond all pain and suffering. Each nail
they used, each hurt, a thing that he forgave;
To be the love that has no end, or grave.

—David Condell