Thursday, April 17, 2014

Holy Week poems

 “I am he” is the seismic center.
It spreads in expanding rings.
The bodies fall outward,

circle a setting sun.
Torches, lanterns, weapons,

a bloody face, arrest
and betrayals spin,

but the center holds.
Even so, night deepens.

Even so, this unbearable cold.

(John 18:1-27)
“What is truth?”

the politician asks,
not sticking

around for an answer.
The question hangs

in the air while
the man born

to be king awaits
his coronation

in silence.

(John 18:28-40)
Out of the pierced side

of the God who is dead
flow all the terrors

of all the nights
the rapes the abductions

the children lost and
the mothers mourning
sirens and sleeplessness

thunder in far off places
the confusion of the archangels

and all my tears, all my sorrows
carried in the stream

that flows from his side.

(John 19:28-42)

No comments:

Post a Comment