Lament of the Lamb

By Richard A., Age 17

Glory to the Father,
The one who pours the wine.
Atop the tallest tower,
Pillars of the vine.

Glory to the Son,
The one who breaks my bones,
Drowning in his blood,
Silencing my moans.

Glory to the Spirit,
The ruler of masked dead,
Sacrificed to no one,
Speared through my stone head.

All now to nothing,
The clock has struck its end,
The birds will feast upon me,
My spirit will transcend.

Humbled by the darkness,
Scratched in porcelain hand,
Inside the sweet addiction,
Lament of the Lamb.

Oh, How sacred.
How serene.
How benign.

The mouths of the just shall meditate wisdom,
And their tongues shall speak salvation.