The savior wrought

his molding taut,

with sculptures made of coal.

His fire burned for her,

the learning set up scorching tolls

inside his heart,

his carving art

would always speak for him,

even after he left her

with inside her his kin.

He set her tribute so

on shelves, then caressed her dark hair,

his love felt like it poured out through his fingers

and tears flared.

Then he left,

the morning wept

with her in soft, blue rain,

the color eyes she didn't have

but soon would see again

in savior's son,

the spitting, one, straight image

of his father,

the gift he gave in his true love

would never none to alter.

Through painful years, she'd sweep the tears

under old rocks and stones,

while warring loved ones saved the earth

she'd otherwise not own.

She'd catch through glimpses

in son's visions,

thus would Time due show

what we're all meant to see thus behold and feel and know,

as the blood we feel so clear.

The love your savior's wrought;

this will never die

and love is pure as artist's lot.

Rose Loya Copyright 2008