God's Wound

A fraud you are, base and low;
mad, without lustre, ash!
So I turn from you,
carve my marks across your heart
and go to God's nearness.

To seek peace in God's breast—
and there I find a wound, bleeding.
It moans—
how worn that face has grown,
such weariness in both eyes.

I reach out to touch, and see:
warm blood, a scent I know.
Am I then
finding you again?
Is the way back, then, barred?