One thousand, nine hundred and fifty years ago
(plus three days of crucifixion, lying low in the grave
and God's resurrection power that seems a reckoning),
then and there they drug you from your Roman cell.
They strung you up and out, then cut off your head,
rolling it as a bowling ball,

and I have heard clarion call
of your heart echoing through time in every single
situation I came across to include the ones with you
looking through me and past me and every which way
except into me through these eyes, our soul's stained 
glass window, river of red you thought I would not forgive.

Rise up, my love. Find your voice.
Do not deny me again this choice.