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That day most dread
has come again
to fill my head
with woeful, doleful imagery.
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The church is dark.
The lamp unlit.
The mourners come in quiet groups,
with shuffled, muffled footstep sounds.
In solemn prayer, I see them stoop.
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A Friday good? A cross of wood.
How harrowing! How hallowing!
That such a day could be the spring
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into Eastering;
childhood stations, rattled, prattled,
scourging, sepulchre, ignominious,
lacrymosa - infamous gibbet,
dolorosa - mother afflicted.
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I hurry on to my holy solace.
Veronica wipes the face of Jesus.
In the face of such atrocity
I cling to that brief sanity!
Veronicas's whom I yearn to be.
In every sorrowing face I see,
I'll try to wipe that face for thee
and will I see that face of thine!
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A desert's dearth - the promised land;
the woes of winter - the spring's magic
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a crucifixion - the resurrection.
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