I was not born for pleasure but for pain;
For blood and thorns and thirst beneath the sun;
And ev'ry man who doubts I am the One
Has lost the only treasure he could gain.
Blasted with hate, betrayed, and marked like Caine,
My fate was sealed; nor was there place to run.
Standing trial and defended by none,
The case was clear; acquittal was in vain.
You hung me high; you nailed me to the cross;
On either side, the outcasts hung with me.
O enemies mine, I died on that hill
With bitterest gall; but mourn not my loss:
You have helped fulfill my great destiny.
My pain is this:--You do not love me still.
September 16, 1986
Won Honorable Mention in New Golden Poetry Contest, World of Poetry. Published in New American Poetry Anthology, 1988. Won 1988 GOLDEN POET AWARD.
Copyright 2012 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.
HAPPY EASTER 2012!