if you wanted

I would sing a thousand melodies

tenuous in their reverence

if that were your craving

I think I would know you

but you are not like our gods

created to serve our appetites

The medals you desire are not made

of sweat and tears and tarnished blood

spilt by sons of thunder,

who pound gold into gifts with their bodies

and offer them to one another

like trophies

like memorials

of conquests in your name.

You are a flawless God

but with a broken heart

(Imagine!)

And it is your scars that you now

turn to praise in your kingdom.

It is my time to wear those wounds

A thousand mornings I have dreamed of it

And as I live

these holy medals shall spread

to all my imperfect parts

covering my impurity

until there is no longer

need