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How could he not? A precious thing like this?

A tender love? A trembling outstretched hand?

A terrified admission, and a kiss?

An instinct welcomed and fully unplanned?

How could he not be so besotted, too,

with what makes all his children shed their tears—

their tears that make them less base, and more true,

that draw from smitten, vulnerable fears?

How could his sacrifice not also keep,

as well, the boy that dreams of finding rest

in loving her? And for her, too, the sleep

she yearns to find upon his tranquil chest?

He promised rest. How could this kind not be

one of his crosses won for you and me?

~

The spirits knew, they did not comprehend

the love they gave, how good it was to get—

to feel—and gratitude was a false end,

for innocence made every thanks unmet.

The mortals feared, they comprehended less,

but loved with something desperate and new,

and got gratitude back—and saw its mess

for what it was, for they felt the mess, too.

The risen saw, they comprehended all,

and got their knowledge back, and shared it well,

and gratitude was no longer a gall,

but, now, the richest thing to get and tell.

Bewilderment on earth trained in mankind

reciprocation of all things most kind.