Life,
like a promise,
broken--
torn from history
Word from page
Living Water
conscripted to stone.
grey dawning,
bereft as night
forgotten Key
fog on the Road.
impossible Dream --
sickened hearts
aFlame!
Fire
consuming marrow
burning ashes
night--
overcome.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
something wrong with good
There's been a feeling creeping up the back of my mind for the last several years, lingering around that analytical part of my brain and tickling the bottoms of my sensibilities.
The feeling is this: Good Friday shouldn't be called 'Good' at all.
What was good about the leather and lead that took first flesh, then muscle, then tendon, then bone?
What good was there in thorny spikes invading that tender space between scalp and skull?
Was it good that a Man fell under the weight of His own death trap? Or that nails were driven through feet that had walked countless miles to give love and hands that had touched the untouchable?
What can we call good in the baseness of Roman soldiers who thought so little of killing that they played dice games while blood dripped?
What was good about that horrible day when the sky was a black funerary shroud and the earth convulsed in its grief?
I think they need to rename the day.
--Teri.
The feeling is this: Good Friday shouldn't be called 'Good' at all.
What was good about the leather and lead that took first flesh, then muscle, then tendon, then bone?
What good was there in thorny spikes invading that tender space between scalp and skull?
Was it good that a Man fell under the weight of His own death trap? Or that nails were driven through feet that had walked countless miles to give love and hands that had touched the untouchable?
What can we call good in the baseness of Roman soldiers who thought so little of killing that they played dice games while blood dripped?
What was good about that horrible day when the sky was a black funerary shroud and the earth convulsed in its grief?
I think they need to rename the day.
--Teri.
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