Blossomed

You speak a word that prunes us:
You love us, and we bleed.
The mercy that renews us
uproots us, thorn and weed.
You cut away these branches—
they're burned but not consumed.
We're only dust and ashes,
but you will make us bloom.

You take our cold convictions,
the vows we made and broke,
wrung through your crucifixion,
sung in the cockerel's crow,
and turn them into mercy.
Your alchemy redeems.
The empty nets are bursting;
the mortuary teems.

You harrowed earth and heaven
to draw us through the dark
where thirty silver pennies
shine out among the stars.
The sea gives up its flotsam,
and sweet now runs its brine.
The briar crown has blossomed—
dead branches drip with wine.

R. ellipticus var. obcordatus leaves and flowers By Franz Xaver - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15635394