The Cup That I Drink Of

J.B. Toner

To feel the lash-cuts on my naked spine,
 The dirty spikes that grate on human bone:
 To suffer for the sins that are my own—
Sweet Christ, I wish so bless'd a fate were mine!
My penance is to let You bear the price,
 To know I shoved the spear into Your side,
 And my worst self was laughing when You died
Because I had escaped the sacrifice.
 Your mercy has more justice than we think;
 My ruined soul Your grace can surely raise,
 But from Your grace and mercy still I shrink—
 For when I meet You at the end of days,
 Who drank the cup that was my own to drink,
 How will I ever meet Your bloody gaze?