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Love is what is left in a relationship after all the selfishness is taken out.

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Patrick White

Sit Warmly Here With Me Awhile

Sit warmly here with me awhile
and I will smother you in fireflies
until your aura looks like
a dandelion constellation
or a globular cluster of first magnitude stars.
My scars have exhumed the knives of old wounds.
And though I confide in the void
like an echo returning to its own voice
or a breath to the sacred groves of the lungs at sunset
and superseded my quota of regrets
to make an expandable universe liveable
every firefly of insight's
got the engine of a dragon behind it
and it burns like a dark clarity within me.
Wrap your silence and mystery around me
like a chrysalis or cloak
and let me rest in your indivisibility awhile
until I disappear deep in your eyes
like a nightbird into its longing.
Let me sit around the lonely fire of your heart
as if I were the only house of the zodiac
who comes to you like an illicit love affair
with its lights still on
long after all the others have gone out.
My solitude is bruised by an abyss
that keeps digging deeper into me
and sometimes it feels as if
it's looking for water and a well
and then other times it's a midnight burial
of someone I can only catch a glimpse of
once and a while under a full moon
that looks like an undertaker
through the leafless veils of the weeping willows
digging his own grave
but feels just like a spade hitting my skull
like a strange form of paydirt
buried like the black pearl of the new moon
in a hope chest of star mud.
Take the coin from under my tongue
like the last sacred syllable
of my unconditional humanity
and throw it down this black hole in my heart
like the moon in a wishing well
and embrace me as if I were not dead awhile.
Out of the ashes the smoke and the flames
like two candles under the stars
let's make up myths of origin
where the gods have no names
until the wildflowers that have outgrown
the gates of the Garden of Eden
look back at where they come from
like a long way away
and give them one
like the elders of an Ojibway tribe
decide on the names of the new born
each according to the totem of a dream.
Pull this thorn from my eye
like the eyelash of the last crescent of the moon
and let me see you face to face
without a thousand and one tears between us.
I shall glorify you like a mosque in lapis lazuli
that can no more contain your image
than the day the night
or one constellation
the whole of the Milky Way.
I shall paint your portrait in picture-music
like the moon reflected on the black water gardens
of the Taj Mahal in mystic hues
of nocturnal waterlilies and cobalt blues
to highlight your eyelids when you sleep
and on your lips rose drops of blood
to wake you like a kiss from your dream
when the waterbirds rise from the lake.
Receive me like a sword into your depths
I throw in tribute from a bridge that crosses over
to the other side of myself
as if you were the far shore of my mindstream
come near to sit with me here awhile
and reminisce like water
on the things that have been and passed
as we listen to the tender laughter of the waves.
I will lift up my shirt
and show you the scars of all the holy wars
I've fought with myself like a faithful heretic
who knew he was doomed to lose
and the spots where the spearheads of insight
penetrated my heart like a voodoo doll
baptized in hot whiskey and cold blood
to take a message to the gods
about human suffering
in a language they could understand
wasn't just the echo of their own voices.
Sit with me here awhile like a face beside a mirror
looking out upon the same starfields
without a trace of our own reflections in the view
and I will teach you
the healing powers of a wounded mouth
like the secret grammar of a grail that seeks itself.

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Patrick White

O My Mother, O My Father

O my mother, O my father,
I stand at this Y in the road,
the hybrid son of an angel and a demon,
two halves of the same chromosome
splitting like the left side of my brain
as a squad car took, you, my father, to jail,
and you, my mother, my right half,
were rushed in an ambulance,
a bruised and battered rose to emergency
as if you'd just barely survived
a hailstorm of meters intent
on making your species extinct.
And it was hard to tell if flesh of my flesh
blood of my blood meant the same as
flesh upon flesh with a dull thud
upon the untempered anvil of a child's heart,
or not. So is it any wonder
when you split the atom that day between you
like Charles Manson and Mother Theresa
and our nuclear family turned out to be
despite Leucippus and Democritus,
fissile material in a radioactive meltdown,
wholly divisible into the infinite wavelengths
that weep like shattered mirrors
with splinters of stars in their eyes
for things they wished they'd never seen.
So is it any wonder I've been
this photon in exile ever since,
this candle that got knocked off the balcony
like a potted geranium of blood
where Romeo declared his love of Juliet
out into this storm that's been trying
to blow me out ever since in the pelting rain?
I've hung onto to that flame
like the rag of fire I was swaddled in
as my natural birthright ever since
like a withered leaf on a maple tree
in the dead of a bird-killing winter.
Strange, isn't it, when a circus
comes to your homelessness
to put up tents where surrealistic clowns
laugh at a childhood in distress
as if it were some kind of joke
you weren't let in on?
And I doubt at this late date
I'll ever know what to make of it
whenever it stares me straight in the heart
and I'm brutally clear enough
not to let my vision of it be smudged
by either hatred or compassion
or the chromatic aberration
of peripheral ideals drowning in wishing wells
like flies in a toilet bowl
love's too dainty to rescue
and the saints are too lazy to save.
Is it any wonder then O my mother, O my father
that I have become this silver-tongued
shape-shifting snake with
a graceful way of twisting things
and haut-couture tattoos on my back
I earned in a radioactive snake-pit
of high-maintenance wavelengths?
That my tongue should be as forked
as three-tined lightning in the mouth
of Hermes the Thrice-Blessed
bearing alphabets to expectant mothers
in a crane-bag of occult grammars,
prophetic as a witching wand
looking for water on the moon,
a split hair, the sacred meeting place
where rivers were enjoined
like bloodstreams of native tribes
to sit around the same council fire
and share the same heart.
That it's a slingshot that can slay Goliath
square in the third eye from anywhere.
Two roads that diverged in a yellow wood
and I took neither one.
The split ends of one strong rope of a language
that was frayed into two
like a Manichean conception of good and evil
or the wishbone of a broken filament,
the death of a nanocosmic chandelier
that sings like tiny birds in the morning
when you shake it close to your ear
like a seashell or a crystal skull
to see if it's still alive or not?
Blue Flower. Black Dog.
Chicory. A junkyard wolf.
Not two. Not two. Not two.
And I tell myself the brightest lights
like dreams and wine and stars
are all seasoned by the dark.
What else can I do
what else can I say to myself
to heal the wounded myth of origins
I received from you, O my mother,
O my father, but lie down like a bridge
by the edge of a river of stars,
a bridge of scars
with only one bank, one foot,
one overturned lifeboat,
one pillar of quicksand to stand on,
the sound of one hand clapping
like applause when no one's listening
that I've made it this far
like the apostate of the raging heresy
that's gone on bleeding ever since
however much holy oil I spread
on the head of the crucified dove
nailed by a slingshot when the T of the cross
where my father's loins hung
like two thieves either side of him
like the unblessed soil
of the ground he walked on
and the people he crushed underfoot
like the cosmic eggs of the skylarks
as if they were nothing but skulls on the moon
one thumb up and one thumb down
like the torches in the hands of the dadaphors
celebrating the Roman New Year,
one thief cursed, and the other
yet to be forgiven. Changed one day
for reasons that are well beyond me
and I intend to keep that way
to the Y of my mother's delta
that flooded like the Nile
every day of my heretical childhood
with tears, the silt of stars, the dust
of unfinished pyramids
that kept us nourished through
those long lonely nights of famine
we ate bitter bread together
and cracked burnt bones
like koans and fortune-cookies
around the kitchen table
to get at the hot marrow of the matter
without burning our fingers and mouths
as we stared for hours
at the patterns on the worn linoleum
without saying a word
as if we were Neanderthals
who'd just stumbled upon a secret cave
of sacred Cro Magnon finger paintings of us.
Back in those days, back in those nights,
when it all seemed so natural back then
before we lost our innocence to comparison,
to have been littered by a Roman wolf-mother
who had driven my father
like a jackal in a lion's hide
with the soul of a scavenger
off what remained
of the carcass of her marriage
to feed her young
and keep them from being eaten
by the likes of him or any other man
for that matter, in her eyes,
though I remember how
it used to terrify me
in a cold sweat for sleepless starless hours
of living a waking nightmare in bed
after all the lights had gone out
that one day I would have to betray her
like her son, Judas,
with thirty moons of silver in my hand,
by telling her against my will
that I was becoming one.
I was becoming a man
and there was nothing I could do about it
except drive myself away from the pride
not knowing in my heart of hearts
whether I was a lion in the wilderness
or a scapegoat that had just cleansed
the sins of the tribes
as if they were my own to bear
for the rest of my life
like a debt to you, O my mother,
my beautiful, savage,
pagan godsend of a mother,
with the soul of a moonrise
and the heart of a gypsy artist in partial eclipse
and your crescents withdrawn like claws
and no blood on the thorns of your rose
when we were happy together, remember,
like weeds in a field, like night birds
that were going to risk the winter
in a tree full of September apples
as ripe as Queensland sunsets
you used to tell us about like passions flowers
that were your version of paradise
you wanted to get back to one day
like all those blue luggage trunks
you kept waiting in the basement like arks
if you could when the wind and the stars,
and the forty days, and the forty nights
were blowing from the right quarter
like a wharf that gave suck
to the comings and goings of the lifeboats
she nursed into life at sea
without ever going anywhere herself.
O my mother, precisely because
you'd never ask, and never did,
what can the son of bright vacancy
say to the mother of dark abundance except
I am a debt I'll never be able to repay you
regardless of what the bloodbanks say,
I am the lion sacrifice on the lunar altar
of the black lamb of the new moon
that opened my third eye
at a coven of gypsy witches
dancing around the fire
like a zodiac of mystic eclipses
far into the wee hours
of my afterlife in this wilderness
of broken vows and stained-glass windows.
And, O my mother, you must know,
before your green eyes
burn like the salt of the earth
in the distant fires of autumn,
before you die, before I do,
before the rose of your life
you turned into a tent and a fire
that sheltered me under
your eyelids, your wings,
goes out when the wind
upends this hourglass world
like a blossom in a mirage of shifting sands.
Before the landlord comes with the sheriff
to serve our final eviction notice,
I sweep your threshold of thorns,
I sweep the wasps like cinders
from the eyes of your fountains
in tears as deep as watersheds.
Because I am so afraid of losing you,
because any word could be our last,
because every word I say to you
seems like an empty lifeboat
drifting across the moon like a cloud
or a lost nightbird in a storm of sorrow,
and all I can think to do to make
what I can't make up to you,
is to become a small boy again,
a thief of flowers who used to steal
from orchards, telelphone booths,
and the backyard starfields
of the abandoned houses of the zodiac
to have something to bring home to you
like Evening in Paris perfume
on your birthday at the winter solstice
when the days began to get longer and warmer
and every bead on your rosary
of habitable planets in orbit, each,
one of the ninety-nine names of God
and one unknown secret she keeps to herself
so the light won't get tongue-tied
trying to say it out loud,
tilted toward the sun at apogee
as only a mother can do
letting the light in through
a crack in our bedroom doors
like a moonrise at midnight
to see if we were all right.
All I can do, and it's only
a metaphoric gesture of the love
I bear for you like a bucket of water
a wishing well once gave birth to in the desert,
is strew your path with fireflies,
with desert stars, with passion flowers,
with humming birds and honey bees
in the wild bougainvillea of Queensland,
and an easel in Eden to paint them with
and Scotch thistles with no thorns for brushes
and caterpillars of oil paint in tubes
that will turn into butterflies at sunrise
when the southern stars and the fireflies
get the light just right,
and any one of which,
their shining sitting to have
their portrait done in the living likeness
of the starmap I've will always see
in your green, green eyes
as life-giving as the moon
in the sentient corals
of this vast nightsea
and the way home for all of us
when the prodigal son returns
like a boy riding a dolphin of stars
through the wavelengths
of the lightyears to come
through both hemispheres
of my heart and mind,
through the northern eclipse of you
O my father, and you, O my mother
who shone even at midnight in the southern
and kept us all together even in our absence
like a weld along the equator
that scarred the wound of the beginning over
with herb gardens you gathered
from the mother-tongue of your heart
that have gone on blooming ever since
well beyond any fence
in any universe of inconceivable existence
that could keep a good thief of flowers out.

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My Life Is A Succession Of People Saying Goodbye

My life is an endless succession
Of people saying goodbye
My life is an endless succession
Of people saying goodbye
And what's left for me?
What's left for me?
At one time the future
Did stretch out before me
But now
It stretches
Behind
And all of the best things in life are behind glass
Money
Jewelry
And flesh
And what's left for me?
What's left for me?

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The Dethroned

The cringing doubts that in his mind were strewn,
Erode what's left of his diminished pride,
All the resolve to fight faded and soon,
As fallen, his soul grimaces inside;
The tolling bells bewail his ebbing days,
The same that pealed in erstwhile revelry,
When lauding victories of yesterdays,
While his glories were yet in heraldry;
But now laurels turned strangers to his head,
A mere specter remained of his great deeds,
If to gallows all these struggles would lead,
His grave, he hopes, would be a boon to weeds;
……And from the stage where now his story ends,
……His foes looked nicer than his supposed friends.

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Something New

things are meant not to last
there is always the right time for them to break
into pieces and no matter how we piece them together
they still shatter
like telling you that they are meant to go, to be broken, to be thrown away

a lap top has a time frame of its own
the virus come in waiting and then all of its essence is gone
you weep for things?
don't. They do not weep for you. You are sad when they break? Don't
They don't feel anything at all for you.

a car for twelve years is not your car anymore
the chassis simply take in rust and some wires get meshed up
with tantrums and like nerves they too go awry and die

malfunction so to say from the language of things and tools
now, we see each other. I am human. I am not a piece, a thing.
I am not a car. I am not a lap top with a time frame
for its breaking
a time for throwing and trading-in
a time simply for replacing

Look at me. I have tears. My skin bleeds when you hurt me.
My heart beats faster when you kiss me.

As we throw away what we do not need now
After all the years of keeping, we reflect.

I have this heart that beats for you. I have time outside the frame
of utility. We grow. We commit. We savor.We are present.

For twelve years now, You will always be someone new.
Let the sun shine. Let the heart beat for a new meaning. Love.

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An Agent I am

in me
the identity of the tree
as i look
and as i talk
i help it send a message
of its existence
so as the next tree
and the next tree
and the next
from the mountain too
i receive a signal
that latches onto my inner self
and every object in sight
the rain, thunder
dance of nature
i am pulled into
the feeling
that each object
arouses in me
a stamp
of their message
good or bad
a storm ensues
what a frustration to learn
that after all the glory
we heap on ourselves
we are but mere
media for all the forms
to project themselves
in the world
as i look at
the tree
this drowsy feeling
it fuels in me
and as i open my mouth
the world is stamped
with its identity
message
good or bad
the feeling to chop
down the other tree arises
one tree subtly using me
as an agent
without me even
knowing it
me drowned
in all the messages
i shed tears over
world's clashes
nature's helplessness
of chaos
in creation
and also the wonder
the wonder
that some far off planets, stars
light years away
are using me too
as an agent
for their ploys
their power
etched on
my trials
tribulations
the (biological) storms
that traverse
this little 5' 5' frame
the oozing
of blood
at full moon,
the lunatics,
the swing of moods,
the favours and disfavours
thrown around
the good, the bad,
the world over
a frustration to
know that i am
a mere agent
in this whole plane
so many things come
into play
and an innocent me
in the centre of all
taking all
for good, for bad
the workings
of the gods?
i found that
prayers and meditation
stop these destructive messages
from crossing over to the world
from polluting our mind, the id
stop the world
from quarrels, warring
yes, quieting the mind
would stop them from
using me as an agent
for their destructive ploys
tearing the world into nothingness
prayers, yes prayers
would douse their desires
the desires floating around the world
i then become a neutral
a buddha in bliss
nirvana
all the trees, mountains
forms in their quiet
stop issuing orders
for war, quarrel..
desire kept at bay

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What's Left Behind Of All Our Love

Translation of the song 'Que Reste-t-il De Nos Amours? '
by Charles Trenet

(I was introduced to this song by Walter Hyatt when we were writing together in Nashville. He performed it once on AUSTIN CITY LIMITS and dedicated it to his high school French teacher. I thought that was so cool! On a trip to Paris I worked on a translation so I could sing it first in French, then English. By the end of the first phrase I'm back at a sidewalk cafe in Paris, sipping espresso and soaking in ambience. I dedicate my translation to my college French professors, Waring McCrady, Jacqueline Schaefer and Scott Bates.)

What's left behind of all our love,
Of those good times, what stays with us,
A photograph, faded but true,
The days of our youth.

What's left behind of April days,
Of tender notes and secret ways,
A never ending memory
Which follows me.

Good times together,
Free as a breeze,
Stolen kisses, sweet reveries.
What's left behind of all of these
Tell me please.

A sleepy town, a church bell rings,
The simple joy that each day brings,
And in a cloud passing so fast...
The days of my past.

Paris 2001

(French lyrics)
Que reste-t-il de nos amours,
Que reste-t-il de ces beaux jours,
Une photo, vieille photo de ma jeunesse.
Que reste-t-il des billets doux
Des mois d'Avril, des rendez-vous,
Un souvenir qui me poursuit sans cesse.
Bonheur fané, cheveux au vent
Baisers volés, rêves mouvants
Que reste-t-il de tout cela, dites-le moi?
Un petit village, un vieux clocher
Un paysage si bien caché
Et dans un nuage, le cher visage de mon passé...

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What is left [2]

What is left
when she doesn’t love you anymore
and you loose her
to somebody else?

What do you have left
when time determines a day
that she is out of your life?

Where does the lost end
when you
have to start again
and what still makes sense?

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What is left unsaid

He shuffles towards me, this obscure stranger
Again, the shock of his bearing surprises me
I see him through the lengthened glass of memory –
the sinewy arms that balanced
a wobbling girl on her new blue bicycle,
the feet that trod sturdily over mountainsides
with hampers and children and dogs.
His cobalt eyes brighten, his beaming smile assures
we are not yet robbed of recognition, my name
still sounds from his lips, he who names people
but fewer and fewer things
His priorities always were fine ones.
Like broken telegraphic code, we communicate
in half sentences, his utterances
A tangled ball of words, so knotted and twisted
it cannot be undone
As I guess at his meanings, his face held so close,
I can feel the spittle and sour-sweet odour of winter, that
which frightens his grandchildren, without offence.
I fill in the blanks in the air, writing what is left unsaid
with my own words, wondering,
what it is we really try to say.
My mother loved books. My father – oh my father-
Who acted and sang and told his old music hall jokes, word perfectly
with rollicking accent and narrative gesture
Who shared from the pages of his mind his treasure store of tales,
of folklore and battles, his loves and his travels.
He sits in a comfy chair, I hold his hand
and tell him my stories as his eyes close.
“See you again soon, Dad. I love you.” The eyelids flicker
but he cannot remember the words.
I must fill in the blanks.

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What Is Left of Language

Tear away my punctuation
Slowly remove my capitals
Indulge in wanton abbreviation
Then what is left is all
That remains of language
In the email.

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Love Is What Love Is

Love Is What Love Is...


love is giving
love is devoting
love is what love is...

love is grate, and
love is good
love is what love is...

love is lavish
love is noble
love is what love is...

love is internal
love is devine
love is what love is...

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What's Left Of The Flag

His eyes they close
and his last breath spoke
he had seen all to be seen
a life once full
now an empty vase
wilt the blossums
on his early grave

walk away me boys
walk away me boys
and my morning we'll be free
wipe that golden tear
from your mother dear
and raise what's left
of the flag for me
Then the rosary beads

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Love Is What! ! ! !

Love is what
love is cool

Love never ends
love is meeting you

Love so so.........
love is 4 ever

Love never knows
love is u

Love is he i
love is life

Love is 4 life
love is all my friends

Love is steph and kimmy and chelsy
love is friends and my gril friends 4 ever

I love begain with my friends

That is what love is! ! ! ! ! !

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What She Left Behind

She took the TV and the toaster
She took the curtains and the car
I guess she took for granted
I wouldn't take it very hard
And for someone in a hurry
She took her own sweet time
But it's not what she took that hurt
It's what she left behind

A bedroom full of memories that time cannot erase
Photographs of the two of us that she said "throw away"
She took my heart and soul and left me here to lose my mind
No

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I loved all the love away

I loved all the love away
Left with mine prodigal hand
Mine heart through my fingers play
To soft white sensual sand
In a desert of sheer famine
Bereft of love and love's sea
I scavenge the ground and examine
The desert of what's left of me
Nothing but white sand and shore
Where the moon tide's waves
move rippled sand of desert galore
to taunt and with will depraves
The love I need, but shows the love I had
Lost in the desert delusional I'm utterly mad…

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What's Left

This one is for everytime I've cried
Everytime I've wondered why I'm alive
Why I try to live why I strive to give
This is a warning for all those who care
I'm losing who I am so I will never be there
A part of me dies each day
Now all my happiness has gone away
I got no reason to stay
This is my final way out
My final shout that will get rid of all doubt
That I'm still me
I'm no longer alive
I'm no longer that happy guy
He's died and this is what's left
A cold freak who's heart no longer beats

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When my love did what I would not, what I would not

When my love did what I would not, what I would not,
I could hear his merry voice upon the wind,
Crying, "e;Fairest, shut your eyes, for see you should not.
Love is blind!"

When my love said what I say not, what I say not,
With a joyous laugh he quieted my fears,
Whispering, "Fairest, hearken not, for hear you may not.
Hath Love ears?"

When my love said, "Will you longer let me seek it?
Blind and deaf is she that doth not bid me come!"
All my heart said murmuring, "Dearest, can I speak it?
Love is dumb!

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Love is what...!

One day

At sleep time

God was come

My dreams asking god

For me

'What is love...? '=

' love is not only you...

love is beautyfull arts...

love is beautyfull buldings...

Love is wonder full temples...

love is colour full butterflys...

love is nice words books...

love is clouds and sea's...

love is fine full songs...

love is fire full sex...

love is all things for life...

what did you want take too love and love

To live life truley love...

With love...'

I was told my answer for god

God run out my dreams...

Ok...

'love is what...! '

It is my question and

Answer aslo...

? ? ? ? ? ?

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Love, See What You've Done To Us

Love, see what you've done to us.
We'll never be the same.
So many things have changed for us.
We only have love to blame.
We listen to hear
when the other is near
and delight in that magical thing.
We look to see
where the other can be?
And our presence does bring
a smile to our faces, remembering embraces
and contentment to us both.
For, love see what you've done to us?
We'll never be the same.

We both remember before we met.
Something was missing for us and yet
we moved along
knowing something was wrong.
Then one day when you came our way
and we instantly let you in.

Love, see what you've done to us.
We'll never be the same.

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Hymn XXVIII: Love Divine! What Hast Thou Done!

Love divine! what hast thou done!
The immortal God hath died for me!
The Father's co-eternal Son
Bore all my sins upon the tree;
The immortal God for me hath died!
My Lord, my Love is crucified.

Behold him, all ye that pass by,
The bleeding Prince of life and peace!
Come, see, ye worms, your Maker die,
And say, was ever grief like his?
Come, feel with me his blood applied:
My Lord, my Love is crucified.

Is crucified for me and you,
To bring us rebels back to God:
Believe, believe the record true,
Ye all are bought with Jesu's blood,
Pardon for all flows from his side;
My Lord, my Love is crucified.

Then let us sit beneath his cross,
And gladly catch the healing stream,
All things for him account but loss,
And give up all our hearts to him;
Of nothing think or speak beside,
'My Lord, my Love is crucified.'

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