Leaning toward Sunday,
Tilting away from Friday,
Today is a forward-slash.
A hyphen won’t suffice.
An and/or proposal,
Crux of a both/and scenario.
This end of a Holy Week,
Feels likes an ellipsis…
This Saturday,
Post back lash,
pre-punctuation scars.
This in-between
where faith hyper ventilates
and doubt choke holds.
Where a stone weights
the wounds of the world.
Friday/Sunday
Before/After
Death/Resurrection
Both/And.
/
Common Grackles rested
on the naked Maple canopy.
Like aneurysms waiting
to burst into flight
they bent the thinning branches.
They had every rite of spring.
Some of them loitered
through the winter
and saw their reflections on ice.
What freedom to stay.
Christ stayed on the tree
and burst unto death
and burst into flight.
There it hung,
like a jelly bean on a string.
It was lighter today
as it lay down.
The moon shadows fled
and death is translucent.
The Bright and Morning Star
rolled it away,
rolled it away.
“I, Jesus, have sent my angel to testify these things to you for the assemblies.
I am the root and the offspring of David; the Bright and Morning Star.”
Revelation 22:16
He was sewn in time,
as are we.
Strips of cloth
upon his reception.
Strips of cloth
when he left,
and stripes
in between.
Naked he wore
lacerations
tightly to his soul.
Wounds cross stitched .
He was clothed
so we could be
naked without shame.
Would I touch the open wounds of Jesus
if he were to stand in the lonely places
of my heart?
Would I dare thrust my hand into his
side like a spear?
Would I gently place my fingers
in the palms of his hands?
There are places where crucifixion
wasn’t fiction at all.
The suffering of the cross cascaded
down through history,
it being the pinnacle of paradox.
The place where love and hate intersect.
So now we sometimes use innocent
suffering and death as a crucible
of the non-fiction Christ.
We read history books to numb any
existential wandering in our own
back yard.
There are crucified hearts laying,
one by one, without a beat,
hoping loosely for a resurrecting
touch, look, hug.
Will I look at the whole worlds suffering
and lose their own soul?
I don’t want Your death to be in vain
when there are opportunities to
touch the open wounds of those
near by.
>
Gerald the Writer 