The Risen Suicide

[tectak]

The falseness of her Christian grave will haunt
me in Your holy court. My soul was blind. Fine opener. Just enigmatic enough.
A daughter does this to a man, and I
was weak, preacher or not, a lost parent
in fields of sadness he could not attack, Is this "he" the same personnage as has a holy court? If so, He may need capitalising. After all, "Your" was.
because he could not grasp the martyred mind
inside his daughter's head. The truth is nought;
the grave is all the truth she knew and loved. Not easy logical progression here. Some prolonged disconnect is apparent. It was a false grave...but now it is the truth?

I found her in the barn and wasn't shocked.
With tender hand I plucked a knife from one
tight fist, then washed her neck with warm water.
I knew her destiny was Hell. I tried
to smuggle her elsewhere. A savage cross
of kindling, thrust in earth with Arthur's zeal,
and her beneath, reserved for Judgement Day
despite that fucking sin (see what I am?
A foul-mouthed cur of wholly sodden mind). An injustice. Your character is suddenly over emphatically self-critical. The case for this is not yet made. This interjected rhetoric may be better later. As it is located, it seems gratuitous
I'm glad her mother's dead. You spared her this
torment, at least. I've earned her pain and more.
What did I think would happen when I laid
my daughter in that grave, her mattress mud?
That cross, that evil cross, so barbarous
and crude, erected on a suicide! I kind of warm to this theme. I want it to develop. The poem may be too long and meandering to make your points clear. See next line.

The roods of old were Heaven's doorknobs compared
to those sticks nailed by my tired hands.
I'd dressed her sweetly in her white night clothes.
Why she'd done this was no secret to me
or You. The joy was absent from her eyes, I am now character confused. My,her,you, You, he, He, I. Consistency is dimishing as complexity increases. Needs looking at
and even loving grace wasn't enough;
my flock had tried, but man can't force a heart.
I beg You for forgiveness when studying
my case. I did not mean to mock Your ways.
That grave I made was vain and foolish hope.

She rose from it like lava spurting through
brimstone, her eyes static and mouth with worms
bedewed. I screamed then wept in martyred tones. bedewed is suspect
I could not save the soul she killed herself. Punctuate to clarity

Now each night she pelts my windows with mud,
walking blind across the woods, not ghost or corpse
but dumb machine, symbol of my crimes,
reminder of hypocrisy. Her eyes
are yoke-less eggs, her skin a rotting steak.
She never speaks, but serves the wrath of You.

It is Gothic, dark and baleful in its outlook...but it reads better than it should because of the richness of imagery. A point worth noting aImost as a general mantra.
You need to look closely at your structured points, which sometimes blur into blunt unfocussed rambles. I see them, but cannot wholly grasp them.
This is me liking it.
As an aside...billy's comment seems germane. It's a long one, Jack.
Best,
tectak