The mystic moon,
Like a wafer,
Hung on the
Pre-dawn deep.
All quiet.
A muted dirge.
Death beats
On my wrist
And wrests
My soul
From sleep
To sky.
And I cry
For death
To die.
“It is finished.” Jesus
Everyone thanks God
and once a year call Friday good.
I called Friday last Tuesday.
Tuesday afternoon I believe.
I was a little moody and blue,
beginning to see.
All I got was an answering machine.
The message I left was returned
three days later.
“Just returning your call, what’s up?”
“Never mind, the question
is no longer relevant.”
I case you are a Moody Blues geek and have time to listen…Someday I will have long hair and a blouse like his. 🙂
Waiting at the station,
the platform held me at attention.
The iron lines lie parallel
and secure with rusty spikes.
Underneath were white stones
large enough to kill someone.
Twin rails, identical, dependent
like a yoke to carry a burden.
Similar tracks would guide
into Auschwitz–Birkenau.
Underneath were white stones
large enough to kill someone.
I stood, head down, hands behind
my back without cuffs.
Thoughts of freedom ring
like scraping of iron on iron.
Underneath were white stones
large enough to kill someone.
There were stations of crossover.
Humans standing, gazing
on the Via Delarosa,
their eyes like two rails.
Underneath were white stones
large enough to kill someone.
It is a Good Friday to stand in a nave.
To look on the One who bore
the railroad ties in juxtaposition.
The oxidized nails set.
Underneath were white stones
large enough to kill someone.
Stationary, I am to remember a Way
beyond my ability to suffer.
I fell on the platform he laid
hoping to carry His burden for a moment.
Underneath were white stones
large enough to kill someone.
Instead I grasped a stone
to hurl at an innocent Jew.
He turned the white washed
piece over in my palm.
Underneath the white stone
was written a name
and on it blood fell.
Traditionally Good Friday is a day where Christians observe the Stations of the Cross. I researched it a bit and found a rich reserve of images on which to meditate. The death of Christ need not be observed as “I know this already” but fresh and heart breaking. Gratitude and brokenness melted my heart this morning. I may never fully grasp the the greatest act of love in history, but today I will try again.
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.
