Beneath this water rushes past

the mud of a broken soul, separated from life, dead. 

My fall from glory was only my imagination, a crown of leaves I called gold, 

eating bitter fruit and calling it sweet until it grew into a void I could no longer deny — wretched. 

Beneath this tree, blood seeped into the cracks of a marred earth, 

the rocks mourning the anguish of the Holy, 

our separation wrenched free, 

torn by the only hands strong enough to break death.  

Through blood and water, I come face-to-face 

with the Holy, alive from the grave.  

My self-made crown withers to dust beneath His
pierced feet. 

This blood and water give me life and ignite a flame — I am never the same.  

– Kelsey Gjesdal