Invited to take up my
cross,
the one He’s hewn for me,
not dolefully but willingly
in joy and misery.
To live my life
conformed to His
tho’ difficult the call,
to follow in His footsteps
through vinegar and gall.
He urges me most
tenderly
to yield and let Him place
the cross that I must carry —
He will supply the grace.
I’m doggedly
determined
to reject His ardent plea,
the way is far too arduous
to Mount Calvary.
Concupiscence has
bound me,
shame and guilt long fled.
I’m crassly unremorseful, for
the Blood for me He shed.
Indifferent to His
thorn-crowned brow,
the lance that pierced His side,
the brutal scourging tearing flesh,
the nails that crucified.
If I remain
impenitent
on judgment day He’ll say,
‘Be gone, I never knew you, for
you spurned the narrow way.
You shunned my gift
of mercy,
without a qualm or care.
You’ve forfeited My Kingdom
as my bride and my co-heir.’
Myra D’Souza / 18
April 2026
