Thank God, Good Friday

 
 
 
 
And we can worship, believe.
He came back.
Not like those false heroes.
He did not abandon us
to die in a far off war, leaving
ashen legacy.
Starvation.
Never enough
affectionate attention
 
for pummeling harsh walls with
bloody fists;
crying salt, oceanic sorrow;
banging against icy windowpane.
“I tried to be good. I hated hearing
your screams of disappointment.”
Muffling shameful despair
because this was not the life
bargained for in the
promised land beyond
hot desert wanders.
Desert, resurrected sea
where we all began.
Sliding along rocky formations.
Begetting, begat, belonging
to the Earth.  Mud creatures
transforming molecules of air,
baking in the Sun.
Carrying crosses along a huge column,
era to era
ready for sacrifice.
 
Atlas’s  Eves,
burdens of responsibility,
breaks in
our sacred contract
every time you speak “Take not my Name.”
Words have consequence.
A cross requires two lines meeting.
A Crucifixion
requires juxtapositions of history,
people in bondage
to their own ideas.
.
.
.
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