If love is patient, why does it always rage,
Against the wind, a pin-fall, or drop of rain?
If love is kind, then why doesn’t it assuage
The burning sores, the endless, senseless pain?
If love isn’t proud, then why does it assert
Itself above the low and stifled soul?
If it isn’t rude, why does it not concern
Itself with the earnest pleas of the whole?
If love does not envy, it would let go.
It would be humble if it did not boast;
It would be a light if it truly hoped,
And would deny itself, not seek its own.
Let truth come, and by true love let it show:
This is not the love I have come to know.
January 25, 2019