At this hour He hangs.
The blind He healed no longer see; the deaf He healed no longer understand. Those who stood close are now only brave enough to watch -- from a safe distance.
He cries out; they bring Him vinegar and gall to drink. A small Roman market opens at the foot of a dripping cross: guards place bids on His garments, even the hem of His garment.
Nothing can stop His bleeding issue.
No one knows, perhaps not (yet) even He, that everyone hangs in Him, that His exsanguination is theirs; is their only hope. There is mockery, scoffing, cursing;
the unknowing living spit sarcasm into His wounds,
He, the only knowing dying,
turns vitriol to wine
He has finished His cup
and it pours out
pooling beneath so many
nervous feet
one thief finds paradise in His great poverty
another finds nothing worth taking
not even this broken bit of bread
a sign maker admires his work,
dumb to the irony of his irony
a crown weaver picks a thorn from his thumb
thinking about furlough
a virgin finds her son finding her Son
and a son finds the mother who gave birth to
a dying God
a rabbi weeps at the Law's last breath
a guard feels the weakness of the sword,
the strength of surrender
a spear pierces the side of heaven
and hell spills out
there is no safe distance
©2007 Bill Gnade. All Rights Reserved.
1 comment:
Were you trying to give me goose bumps? Nice work. Happy Easter.
feeno
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