Torn.

Torn.

Torn.

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

Of us

 

Torn.

Rust-bound nails pierce uncreated flesh,

Word of eternity in blood cascading.

Arms spread wide in love-drenched agony.

 

Torn.

A mother’s heart shattered into a million pieces,

she watches,

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.

 

Torn.

Son wrenched from Father, Father wrenched from Son.

Hung in forsaken desolation,

A blackness of nothing,

Crushing his soul.

It is finished.

 

Torn.

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

 

Photo by phil thep on Unsplash

 

 

 

 

 

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