Kneeling on the ground,
Shattered glass all around,
Cuts and wounds on hands and knees,
Holding his heart ever so delicately.

Shielding it from the broken glass,
Despite the pain of a heart without,
Screaming out an anguished cry,
The gaping wound never bleeding dry.

Clutching it desperately while in agony,
To let it fall and shatter,
And die a quick death,
Or hold it closer still,
And hope that there will be a miracle,
Is now the final choice.

Unsure if holding on,
His prayer will be fulfilled,
Or after a slow agonizing death,
Come to be still.

His wings before so radiantly white,
Now a deathly pale,
Stained in wet drops of crimson,
They fold around himself as the winds around him wail,
Unable to stand till that Day he is risen,
Or by His will that miracle comes to heal.

Hoping against the odds,
Praying for that miracle,
Yet accepting what may come,
His Father's will be done.

With the last of his strength,
The very last bit of his will,
He cries out his anguished cry,
"God, help me."