Resurrection Day (Easter Sunday)

Sorrow always

lingers

in darkened places.

Sins flourish

in the shadow of the night.

Bread gone stale.

The wine exhausted.

Tears dried.

At the weakest, morning breaks,

furiously,

dispelling shadow.

Into prison

Freedom brought.

Guilt transmuted.

Shame extinguished

Hopelessness vanished

in the glory of the Son.

Life redirected.

Guilt rescinded.

Hope resurrected.

Where Will You Sleep? (Holy Saturday)

Where will you sleep

when the world has fallen

upon the stony ground

to crack, to break,

to shatter on the earth?

When darkness, the day has won

and regrets stalk

the barren, lonely wastes

where, now, will you reside?

In Potter’s fields?

Or recline on couches?

As sleep’s embrace claims night

will your spirit

linger here or walk upon

the waves? Or tread the rocks

and thorny expanse?

As dreamers dream and

mourner’s weep; as soldier’s tread

the graves of men

will you grieve the labor’s lost

Or wait upon the end?

Too real the blood,

Too soon the tears have fled,

Too true the accusations.

What now to hope?

What promise now to cling

in sleepless hours of that

desperate day?

Blood Red (Good Friday)

Blood red

The abdication washed from Pilate’s hands

Self-absolution.

Blood red

The guilt taken by fearful men

Unmoving and unmoved.

Blood red

The bloated corpse of self-seeking pride

Falling forth to feed the earth.

Blood red

Eyes, exhausted of tears

Of mothers and friends.

Blood red

The guilty hands of friend and foe

Seeking each his sordid gain.

Blood red

The battered brow assaulted by thorns

Twisted by the duty-bound in wanton pleasure.

Blood red

A saturated cross weighty beyond bear

Mingled with the dust of holy streets.

Blood red

The inexorable stains in darkness visible;

The outline of a righteous man.

Blood red

Soiling the snowy coat

Of the only spotless lamb.

God Strike the Weary Eyes (Maundy Thursday)

God strike the weary eyes,

Twin vessels of selfishness;

Grand prismatic pools;

Self-seeking, ever

To a fault

--- to the death.

Lord forbear these quaking bones,

These skeleton limbs

Entwined by creeping vines

Of desire

And preservation.

 Hear the fire crackling.

Smell the smoke rising,

Kindled to consume the chaff.

God pardon filthy hands,

So apt to ply the trade of hate

Or pay the sordid price of pride.

Strike the sword that strikes the heart

Of a fellow man,

Out of fear,

Despair,

Or misguided dreams.

Remove, O Lord, these tortured ears

Which perceive morning’s sorrowful refrain

Echoing beneath the din

Of every voice,

Every cry,

Every year.

God forgive this wretched soul

That is not pure

That is not good

That does not seek

Anything but its own twisted will.

Lord tear away this heart of stone

This hardened coal

That is not true

That is not kind

That does not love the least,

The enemies, or neighbors.

muffled footsteps on damp pavement

muffled footsteps on damp pavement,
air thick with burgeoning storm
a rising chorus cuts the night---
peepers, in spring oratorio.
distant headlights,
a brief chill.
the blocks wear on
in dull succession;
soles worn thin chasing midnight.