Good Friday

If I could touch

the rough wood,

let Your blood drip down

onto my fingertips,

if I could hear the ragged

breath, see the flesh

torn,

if I could witness fists clenched

upon spikes

listen to the sobs

watch your cruelly crowned head

hang,

if I heard the hoarse prayer,

forgive,

considered eyes full

of such sorrow,

if I knew the cry that rang out,

It is finished!

was really for me,

for me.

If I had stood upon the quaking

dark earth, bereft of God,

if I had seen the centurion wonder,

the curtain split, the graves open wide

in defeat,

if I had held Your breathless

body one last time

before the end.

 

Then,

my Jesus,

would I be brave?

Would I own you, boldly,

loudly, wanting all

to know?

Truth is,

I’m a coward

and a fool.

Truth is,

I fidget away

while You hang dying.

I consume and am consumed

by nothing

while You,

the Everything,

gasp Your last breath,

bleed and bruise and break,

for me.

For me.

Truth is,

if I believed it

all the way,

then all my ways

of living would be

You.

 

Let me sink

beneath

Your dying

and know truly

it is

for me.

Let me feel the weight

of this terrible

love,

that I might know it

unbearable, might be

fully broken,

might be

crucified.

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