by Sheila Petre

“Lo, I come,” He said, “to do Thy will, O God.”
And then He did. His bowed back bled
With wound of whip and rod.
He wept. He reached. He trod
Through crowded street instead of star-shot skies.
Today He stretches out a hand and cries.
We lay down slow
Our moldy sacrifice. That Will is not to bring
Some well-thought thing, some golden offering,
But this: to do His will alone. Pride dies
In agony and shame. Faith tastes the blood.

We weep. We reach—and rise.

Sheila lives with her welder husband Michael in a split-level house in PA teeming with children (nine) and stories (countless). Contact her at to ask her about her new poem book illustrated by Hannah Lehigh.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

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