Bleak Sabbath

Bleak Sabbath

A Lament of a follower of Jesus

 

Empty as an inverted pitcher,

every hope, every bright hour,

every wonderment at a miracle

quashed by three vicious nails

and an alien spear

thrust deep into the side

of my most precious love.

 

Friends? I know not where they are.

Hiding like me?

Full of fear?

Fled from the city

for the safety of home

and work they understand?

O where, O where might they be?

 

I weep as I have never wept before:

for the death of him 

who filled us with hope and joy;

at the remembrance of horror

I thought I would never have to bear;

at the thought of his once beautiful body

lifeless in a stone-cold tomb.

And with gut wrenching anxiety

for my own pitiable life.

 

There is nothing to live for,

I am utterly undone.

Let the mountains fall on me.

I feel I cannot bear another day

 

Yet I will cry out to the Father

to whom he taught us to pray.

Listen to the poem read by the author

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This is part of a Lent and Easter collection which includes a Palm Sunday re-imagination, and other ‘unreported moments from fist century Judea. These can be accessed HERE