Good Friday


It was a horror—- that blood red day.

Stumbling, falling, on the stone hard way.

To Golgotha and slow pain terror,

By mob law for Juda’s error.

Rocky mount and storm sky met,

death trees planted, firm and set

With hanging fruit of human seed,

Sacrificed for mankind’s need.

Looking down with ebbing life,

On the grieving face of Mother,

Sister, Wife.

His whispers cut—- with a ragged knife.

Later, in the dark of night,

Long after, the crowd’s ebbed slight,

She was  empty of tears to cry.

Mary watched her heart’s whole die.

There was nothing they could say,

But take Him down

And carry away,

A  beloved Messiah,  lost that day.

They took him to a borrowed tomb,

Someone else’s death shelf room.

Bloody, torn, pale and still,

He lay there in the dark, cold chill.

Soul unfurled

And cloak drawn light,

She hurried softly,

Through the fading night.

At morning dawn

She crept along,

Down the path beneath the rise

As mourning doves began their cries.

In her hand an anointing jar,

Remembering a time long far

With  her hair undone

Oh, but now—–

She would finish what she once begun.

Then she saw the stone rolled-way,

And a stranger turned to say,

“I am here,” “It is me.”

“Yes, yes” she could see.

She ran  forth to touch the light,

He stood back at passion’s flight.

“Wait, wait, do not touch me.”

“I am more than you can see”




“For I am not yet at Heaven’s gate.”

And, then she knew

Immortal  bond

As  he smiled,

And was gone.

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