a good friday poem

The Crossing 

We sit quiet
in the dusk
that is the Advent of your Living
And the darkness sits with us.

No lights, no tinsel now;
Our waiting is a Jesse tree.
As you were stretched taut,
so our hearts stretch
to breaking point
in the Good Friday of our lives.

No joyful song, no magic here;
Our waiting is an empty hearth.
As you were emptied willingly,
so our mouths
are emptied of the hollow truths
that speak of who we think we are.

No swelling hearts, no shouts of laughter here;
Our waiting is a silenced song.
As you were broken by the outrage of our brokenness,
so our idols
lay smashed before us
ground to golden dust.

We sit quiet
in the dusk
that is the Advent of your Living
And the darkness sits with us.

Advertisements

Comments are closed.

%d bloggers like this: