Good Friday Sonnet

Your Son hangs dead upon His bloody cross,
So now I turn to you, his mother pure.
I force myself to see that bitter loss
That I have caused and He alone could cure.
I stand aright, I am too low to kneel,
And with a voice still full of Satan's pride
I dare to sink my fangs into your heel,
And tell for whom your only Son has died.

I am the writhing worm that dieth not,
A hollow shell all eaten out with lust,
Infecting all I touch with putrid rot,
And destined only to return to dust.
But baser still is what I yet shall do,
To beg forgiveness from your Son, and you.