Grateful

for words in the dark.

for the feel of the path beneath

            my feet.

for the sound of Your breath,

            unseen.

for the sunrise that does not

            end the exile,

            but reminds me

            to remember.

for the memory

            of the long thirst

            in the desert,

            of kingly strides through

            the temple,

            of the face patient in firelight

            listening, teaching.

 

for the sound

            of a voice in the void,

            of words ringing clear over multitudes,

            of weeping above the city,

            of night prayers lifted in solitude.

for the touch

            of God-flesh on crippled hopes,

            of fingerprints left on eyes, ears,

            bodies, souls.

 

for the agony

            in the garden,

for the skin-ripped stripes,

for the woven crown.

 

for the nails.

 

for each labored breath.

 

for the rough wood soaking

            up the blood,

for an anguished cry that at long      

            last, it is finished.

for the journey to the deep.

for the rock

            that failed to hold.

for the crack

            in eternity that means

            this resurrection is also

            mine.

 

for the path of footsteps

            to the altar that show

            the way for me to go

            there too, so I may lay

            myself down

            unafraid, already

            victorious.