Your Love, a cliche no more

Lord,
your love is a mystery.
It is, you see.
Whether a cliche it may be,
it remains a mystery.

For tell me this Lord,
who else still loves me
when I angrily
scream in their face and cry,
"You're not helping me!"?

Who else,
tell me I pray, who else loves me
even after I dishonor
their well-established name?

Would my mother
mark me unclaimed if I yelled,
"You promised me life, but I don't get it.
I want my contentment! Where's my share of it?!"

Would my father, my earthly, only father
still take my hand in public
if I spit in his face,
left the home he provided for me
to move in with the scum of the sea?

Lord,
one poem cannot encompass
Your love's vastness.
How can I,
no,
How dare I mark your porcelain forehead
with the hammer of human emotion?

Lord,
Your anger is just.
Your punishment,
a self-prescription of ours.
Your might is never-ending.
Your power is universe controlling.
Your glory is blinding.
But
Your Love?
What on earth is your love?
Words can't describe it
Man can't define it
And I can't entwine it with the meaningless ideas of mine.

Lord,
Your Love is Holy.
It will soar.
Your Love, a cliche no more.