A lonely garden
draped in a starry night,
a soul ripped apart.
Yet not my will but yours
His spirit shrieks his fear
His body trembles
overwhelmed with the weight
Rust-bound nails pierce uncreated flesh,
Word of eternity in blood cascading.
Arms spread wide in love-drenched agony.
A mother’s heart shattered into a million pieces,
afraid to turn away.
Drowned in the anguish of uncomprehending grief.
She recalls a night so long ago
When the stars were bright and her pain was wild,
when he weighed heavy in her arms,
And myrrh weaved through the expectant air.
The God of glory
Flung into dust.
Son wrenched from Father, Father wrenched from Son.
Hung in forsaken desolation,
A blackness of nothing,
Crushing his soul.
It is finished.
The earth sighs under despair-laden darkness.
But something more.
The skies are shaken,
the great curtain rent in two,
the triumph of history in pain-splintered rupture.
Will light blaze
in these gashed-apart shadows?
'The triumph of history in pain-splintered rupture.' Torn. A poem for Good Friday Click To Tweet