I remember the day I met Christ.
It was in death, and not only I,
For I mourned the death of us,
How our love turned tragedy,
And I crumbled at the thought
That we had wasted our youth.
Tears came. I buried my face 
In my hands for their shelter.
But, letting up for a moment, 
I looked at the tears on my hands
And saw an old scar on my wrist,
And it was then I saw the nail-wounds.

I ...

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