Praise Worthy Poem by Charles Matolokoshi

I.
In dark, lone chambers of a man's own ribs,
in curves beneath where hidden shadows hide,
a light breaks forth and every corner glibs
with brilliance streaming forth from side to side.
A soul as white as snow, His blood alone
remains untouched, unstained by earthly grime,
while we, poor mortals, speak as if we'd known
the ocean's depths, the boundless, timeless clime.
We cry for justice we know nothing of,
and fail to see what's plain before our eyes—
the pain, the strength, the weight of sacred love
we complain against, too blind to rise.
Thus we fall short, unfit to hold the throne,
too weak to serve a pleasure not our own.
II.
Yet still His pain submerges every sin
that lingers in our merry, wayward hearts,
and drowns the fears of hades held within,
dissolving every dread that hell imparts.
Each twenty-four-hour mark that ticks away,
the blasphemies roll on, too bold, too loud,
against my King, the King of Kings, who lay
His crown aside and stooped beneath the crowd.
He hid His majesty, concealed the light
of heaven's throne, and looked instead for me,
descending from the kingdom's endless height,
all glory traded for humility.
So let my voice, no longer weak, proclaim
the wonder of so great and pure a name.