a wracked, a shattered world

I gaze upon a wracked, a shattered world
        where ruin rampant runs among the lives
       of men whose burdens, labors, toils wear
       them thin and ragged, hopeless.
                                                           Glances show
       no light above, nor goal below to drive
       them onward with a sense of purpose.
                                                                    They
       (and we) do struggle through the cold, dark night
       before the long awaited eschaton.

I gaze upon a rose that drips to match
       the sodden, dreary sky, its petals now
       unfurling red as blood.
                                           The heartbeat of
       a dying world is loud indeed, more full
       of noisome spectacle and gnashing teeth
       than I could dare believe.
                                                “Not made for this!”
       it loudly cries; “A better world was I
       and better could be still,” it mournful wails.

I gaze upon the hope of all, his form
       now battered, bruised and crushed.
                                                               He hangs
       upon a twisted tree and bears the weight
       of all our human scorn.
                                            This death is death
       of death—of burdens, ruin, hopelessness.
       The earth unchained from groaning burdens sings;
       unbrokenness has broken in, has brok-
       en all despair.
                              He waits—
                                                He yearns—
                                                                     He comes!