Sunsmith

Hammered down the stars in all their brightened points;
Battered out the world in its green and ocean form,
forge from space the Sunsmith’s sword
to cut the souls from lonely men
and take them through in massive skins;
in skins that are not their own.

So we, in bodies far too tight for us,
wait for the fires that promised come,
striving all the while for present righteousness
but each failing his own time and time again.
Yet every inch we take is heavenward
and every inch we fall is covered over
by an ocean of reigning grace.
Grace, poured from the Sunsmith’s veins
as he hung himself among the nails.