I Made an Altar of Thee

O Lord, forgive me, for I have sinned,
and I come before Thee with no defence,
save a heart already broken
by the hands to which I gave it willingly.

I loved the one who wounded me,
and wounded the one who loved me.
I knelt before a heart that would not have me,
whilst another knelt before mine,
and I, in my blindness, turned away.

I accepted the love I thought I deserved,
cold, uncertain, and sparingly given,
and rejected the love I truly deserved,
the kind that stayed,
the kind that waited,
the kind that asked for nothing
but to be allowed to remain.

I gave my life to one
who scarcely turned his eyes upon me,
and snatched myself away
from the one whose gaze
had never wandered.

For one who despised me,
I made wounds of my own flesh;
and in my sorrow,
I became the blade
to the heart of one
who would have bled in my stead.

The one I begged to hear me
taught me silence.

And the one who listened
to every trembling word I spoke,
I silenced.

The one who pushed me from his door
I followed through the bitter night;
the one who held his door open for me,
I left standing in the cold.

O merciful Lord,
what cruel creature hath grief made of me?

I mistook longing for devotion,
absence for mystery,
pain for passion,
and suffering for proof
that what I felt was love.

I called the wound sacred
because I could not bear
to call it what it was.

And when love came unto me
without thorns,
without punishment,
without making me beg upon my knees,
I knew not how to receive it.

So I broke
the very last shattered piece of my heart
for the one who had broken it before,

and with those same trembling hands,
I broke the heart
of the one who had gathered every fallen piece
as though each fragment
were something holy.

Forgive me, Lord.

Not because I loved,
for surely love itself is no sin,

but because I made an altar
of the one who hurt me
and offered upon it
the heart of the one who loved me.

I worshipped at the door
that would not open,
whilst love stood behind me
calling my name.

And now the chapel is empty.

The candles have burned low.

There is no voice but mine
returning from the stone:

I loved the one who hurt me most,
and I hurt the one who loved me most.

So here I kneel,
not asking Thee to return
what my own hands have undone.

Only this:

Forgive the foolish heart
that learned too late
that love was never meant
to feel like penance.

And teach me, Lord,
if ever love should find me again,

not to crucify the heart
that came only
to save mine.