Transposing Deity

Rounded shoulders loom over my chest, so tight
burdened by my cross: is it like yours?
Pressed nose-close the ground all light absorbs
where darkness drowns already-strainéd sight.
Jaundiced doldrums swallow dispirited hope,
I look up the deep hole to see only
the tiniest of light halos so very far above me.
The best of things you symbol-forth are crushed,
oozing glory shared: olives, grapes, virtues.
Sheep sheared leap the ground eschewing.
You, Lord, are the vine dresser, shepherd, light
while I John’s dark night—or illusion sparking pride.
I am a worm and no man, yet of all things
you distill hope smallest that worms might feed
on flesh and blood to become something greater
—to metamorphize and transpose deity.