A WALK TO REMEMBER

It was you oh Lord

Who felt the pain

The likes of which

I could never endure,

For this vessel is weak

And I would certainly fail

Of this I can be sure.

For you alone

Were meant to suffer

For a sinful world to see,

Oh what compassion

You must have felt

To give your life for me.

So as I close my tearful eyes

The Holy Spirit carries me away,

To that passionate moment

In our world’s history

To see what transpired that day.

I see throngs of people

All lined up

Along an ancient cobbled road,

And in the distance

Came a beleaguered man

Carrying a heavy load.

He is hurried along by Roman soldiers

Who taunt him with their swords,

And it is obvious to see,

Who this tormented man is,

It is my beloved Lord.

For he is battered and bruised

Far beyond the capacity

That we humans were meant to endure,

And it was the pain in his eyes

That made me realize,

How strong his love was and how pure.

His muscles now burned with intense pain

As if pierced with a sharp hot dagger

Yet, he continued on with determination

But now, with a marked stagger.

That which was great beads of sweat

Was now blood that freely flowed

Down his face

As he came nearer to the place

Where he would pay the price

That, we sinners owed.

Dehydration was a real problem

As his body had little water in it,

And he stumbled often

Under the weight of the cross

As he grew weaker by the minute.

He was nearing the point

Of total exhaustion

As blood streamed down his face,

The result of a painful crown of thorns

Placed there with intent to disgrace.

He no longer heard the jeering crowds

Or the foul insults they delivered,

And bravely continued his agonizing journey

On swollen bloodied legs that quivered.

He hung his head low

To avoid the rays

Of the intense afternoon sun,

And struggled on

As he heard his father’s voice,

“Your nearly there son, it’s almost done.”

As the procession reached the hill

Known then as Golgotha

And now known as Calvary,

I could hear her shrilled cry

It was our Lord’s mother, Mary

Calling out an impassioned mother’s plea.

Then for reasons unknown

This vision fast-forwarded

To the moment

When our lord gave up the ghost,

And perhaps the point was plain that,

“True sacrifice involves pain and,

It’s His death on the cross

That we should remember the most.”

Legal Notice

My work is copyrighted Sharon Legg Photography OR Sharon Legg Digital Arts.

My images belong only to me and are not for public use or stock photos. Therefore, my photos/digital arts are not to be reproduced, copied, downloaded, manipulated, edited, published, transmitted/distributed, drawn or used on any other site or web without my prior WRITTEN permission.

To use any of my work without my written permission will be considered theft and action will be taken. This also includes desktops and screen savers as well as taking my photographs by copying and pasting. Featuring my work on any OTHER site than deviantArt requires PRIOR written permission from me.

All of my creations on my dA site, are protected by copyright and intellectual property rights, which are registered and controlled by Sharon Legg Photography & Digital Arts.














Skin by ~alealara

Craving for Spring

I wish it were spring in the world.

Let it be spring!
Come, bubbling, surging tide of sap!
Come, rush of creation!
Come, life! surge through this mass of mortification!
Come, sweep away these exquisite, ghastly first-flowers,
which are rather last-flowers!
Come, thaw down their cool portentousness, dissolve them:
snowdrops, straight, death-veined exhalations of white and purple crocuses,
flowers of the penumbra, issue of corruption, nourished in mortification,
jets of exquisite finality;
Come, spring, make havoc of them!

I trample on the snowdrops, it gives me pleasure to tread down the jonquils,
to destroy the chill Lent lilies;
for I am sick of them, their faint-bloodedness,
slow-blooded, icy-fleshed, portentous.

I want the fine, kindling wine-sap of spring,
gold, and of inconceivably fine, quintessential brightness,
rare almost as beams, yet overwhelmingly potent,
strong like the greatest force of world-balancing.

This is the same that picks up the harvest of wheat
and rocks it, tons of grain, on the ripening wind;
the same that dangles the globe-shaped pleiads of fruit
temptingly in mid-air, between a playful thumb and finger;
oh, and suddenly, from out of nowhere, whirls the pear-bloom,
upon us, and apple- and almond- and apricot- and quince-blossom,
storms and cumulus clouds of all imaginable blossom
about our bewildered faces,
though we do not worship.

I wish it were spring
cunningly blowing on the fallen sparks, odds and ends of the old, scattered fire,
and kindling shapely little conflagrations
curious long-legged foals, and wide-eared calves, and naked sparrow-bubs.

I wish that spring
would start the thundering traffic of feet
new feet on the earth, beating with impatience.

I wish it were spring, thundering
delicate, tender spring.
I wish these brittle, frost-lovely flowers of passionate, mysterious corruption
were not yet to come still more from the still-flickering discontent.

Oh, in the spring, the bluebell bows him down for very exuberance,
exulting with secret warm excess,
bowed down with his inner magnificence!

Oh, yes, the gush of spring is strong enough
to toss the globe of earth like a ball on a water-jet
dancing sportfully;
as you see a tiny celluloid ball tossing on a squirt of water
for men to shoot at, penny-a-time, in a booth at a fair.

The gush of spring is strong enough
to play with the globe of earth like a ball on a fountain;
At the same time it opens the tiny hands of the hazel
with such infinite patience.
The power of the rising, golden, all-creative sap could take the earth
and heave it off among the stars, into the invisible;
the same sets the throstle at sunset on a bough
singing against the blackbird;
comes out in the hesitating tremor of the primrose,
and betrays its candour in the round white strawberry flower,
is dignified in the foxglove, like a Red-Indian brave.

Ah come, come quickly, spring!
come and lift us towards our culmination, we myriads;
we who have never flowered, like patient cactuses.
Come and lift us to our end, to blossom, bring us to our summer
we who are winter-weary in the winter of the of the world.
Come making the chaffinch nests hollow and cosy,
come and soften the willow buds till they are puffed and furred,
then blow them over with gold.
Coma and cajole the gawky colt’s-foot flowers.

Come quickly, and vindicate us.
against too much death.
Come quickly, and stir the rotten globe of the world from within,
burst it with germination, with world anew.
Come now, to us, your adherents, who cannot flower from the ice.
All the world gleams with the lilies of death the Unconquerable,
but come, give us our turn.
Enough of the virgins and lilies, of passionate, suffocating perfume of corruption,
no more narcissus perfume, lily harlots, the blades of sensation
piercing the flesh to blossom of death.
Have done, have done with this shuddering, delicious business
of thrilling ruin in the flesh, of pungent passion, of rare, death-edged ecstasy.
Give us our turn, give us a chance, let our hour strike,
O soon, soon!
Let the darkness turn violet with rich dawn.
Let the darkness be warmed, warmed through to a ruddy violet,
incipient purpling towards summer in the world of the heart of man.

Are the violets already here!
Show me! I tremble so much to hear it, that even now
on the threshold of spring, I fear I shall die.
Show me the violets that are out.

Oh, if it be true, and the living darkness of the blood of man is purpling with violets,
if the violets are coming out from under the rack of men, winter-rotten and fallen,
we shall have spring.
Pray not to die on this Pisgah blossoming with violets.
Pray to live through.
If you catch a whiff of violets from the darkness of the shadow of man
it will be spring in the world,
it will be spring in the world of the living;
wonderment organising itself, heralding itself with the violets,
stirring of new seasons.

Ah, do not let me die on the brink of such anticipation!
Worse, let me not deceive myself.

- D.H.Lawrence

Legal Notice

My work is copyrighted Sharon Legg Photography OR Sharon Legg Digital Arts.

My images belong only to me and are not for public use or stock photos. Therefore, my photos/digital arts are not to be reproduced, copied, downloaded, manipulated, edited, published, transmitted/distributed, drawn or used on any other site or web without my prior WRITTEN permission.

To use any of my work without my written permission will be considered theft and action will be taken. This also includes desktops and screen savers as well as taking my photographs by copying and pasting. Featuring my work on any OTHER site than deviantArt requires PRIOR written permission from me.

All of my creations on my dA site, are protected by copyright and intellectual property rights, which are registered and controlled by Sharon Legg Photography & Digital Arts.

Skin by ~alealara