It would be easy

to go quietly into

the hands of an inviting

God that once was mine

and could be mine again, but I feel

it holds more wonder to

wait for hell fire than

drink from a foreign glass.

I rather my God punish me

than dream up a deceiving joy

that I embrace without fear. Let me

anticipate the roaring flames

and noxious fumes from

seared flesh and crack bone,

not that it should offer solace,

but to feel the cruelty of

the porcupine quill reminds

me that if my father punished

me for my wrongs, surely God

must do the same. In either

circumstance, love was the inspiration

so I am soothed in my troubles

by that lone fact.