I like the broken and the bent,
The careworn and the shent,
Limping or on one leg,
Who cannot choose but beg.
I love the sinner and his sin,
The despair I find him in,
The eyes that well with tears,
The hearts that shake with fears.
I love them all and they love me,
Akin in our iniquity
And most of all the sickly hope
The goodness toward which they blindly grope.
Even the best of them don't dare believe
Some higher thing will grant reprieve,
Or resurrection might yet be theirs,
These reprobates, these Adam's heirs.
And yet I know some cosmic court
Intends to save this wretched sort,
Its rationale shall lie in this:
Not one of them felt worth this bliss.
© Joseph Pedulla, Wednesday, February 22,2018
Topic(s) of this poem: sin, weakness
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.