AUBADE This Sunday morning finds me still in bed Though not hung over, seized with doubt, or ill— In fact, the opposite, but lacking will To rise from lolling and my limbs’ slack spread. At least this lack of fervor will not wed Me to a mission or a vest tailored to spill The blood of strangers as if to fulfill Commandments born less of love than dread. This peace of ready understanding breaks Against one martyr’s term for it—“cheap grace”— The wound uncleaned, yet ample balm applied. Reopened, may I find a heart that wakes To more than sloth, discerning my true case, A need for mercy deep as it is wide.