My Own Hymn to God, My God in Sickness

Diamond on diamond

chisel, I

though lodged in stone

will not resist the pressure nor the cut

If incision be, my Lord, required

to make me yours, the jewel of your desire

fit for the hem of your pure panoply,

then Spirit, diamond-fire, facet me

So every ray of yours may find

reflection point.  For I would be

though smallest, yet most costly won

(care in every cut)

and on a blood-red linen

lay me down

to die to

live

a diamond in the rough.