The Priest

A singular rose,
Laid bare on the altar,
Stripped of all impurities
and thorns.

Red,
Bloody as my bleeding heart;
Dark,
Seasoned with age,
But so simple,
Adorning the lonely altar;
Adding nothing, but all.

And Mary:
Love and Pity, 
Joyously stretching her hands
Towards the simple
Devotion
Of a rose.

For it was she who pruned the   bush,
She who cultivated the soil,
She who labored for such beauty:
Who stripped the thorns
And turned the red blood
White.

Her tears and the tears of her son,
Shared perfectly from each to one,
Gushing forth the blood,
Divinizing what should be good
But's fallen so far to the ground 
It's impossible to distinguish from the mud.

From brown to red to white,
of which the world claims the reverse.

Mother against the world,
Son against the world,
Raise me higher,
Grow me in virtue and let me die
Nestled in the sweet arms
of my Mother.