Never here blood shown so sweet
Naught death shine yet more gracious.
No love became nor ever will
A salvation quite as precious.
Abode with us yet joined to sin,
Life exhaled for own Creation.
Yet breath again regained, sustained!
And grant His own, salvation.
Life shall lead, and for a time
Reveal our deprivation
But death through One,
A single, silent expiration.
Shall grant to all, found yet by few
A want-less great salvation.
-I.F.
If- a word who brings no slight or timid hesitation.
A giver of what one may see as anxious consternation.
Can such a word generate profound as so efficient?
Not one can claim with such least pomp.
As if by size or thousand words be found as its intent.
These only shall I find encompass my name initial.
Two few letters find themselves my life and own credential.
Answer lies in this one verse, tis my name this poem rehearse.
Riddle? Yes, this word speaks true, my name you guess? Then this a clue.
My name has found entombed within, wrote like Poet of old.
Lost within, a treasure for sure, like buried riches once untold.
To find my name, cannot be done on whim or wish but intellect and wit.
The word I fix must light your way, be wary lest you fall in pit.
Even then, this and luck, find your hand most difficult.
For my name to find is why I write, not to cause more tumult.
To scholar fair, to intellect, to learning all the more!
To all be it fair or homely fate, to all, though rich or poor.
You will no great a sustenance as wisdom and or knowledge.
But wit itself finds a use, it gives a wizened edge.
For me with my devises, it provides my plateau a ledge.
-I.F.
