Holy Week — day seven, Holy Saturday

Crucify him

still echoes

reaches

through the room,

and rests

on my tongue like ashes.

I’m so sorry,

my truest friend.

I’m so sorry.

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Holy week — day six, Good Friday

I am weary and overwhelmed.
This too shall pass.
Here we are
only here.
You are still you
still joy, still good,
still rushing at me.
Today, you lap up death
again
for me.
Lap it up like grace.
you won’t choke
like I do.
Your cup of deepest sorrow
and your cup of deepest joy.
Please, draw near, Forsaken.

I am weary and overwhelmed,
but it’s Good Friday.
mourning of death, mourning
for life, grace and mercy and joy
that cannot die,
are all here, right here, only here.
Sorrow and
joy of life at all –
sit side by side
and do not wrestle.

It feels like breaking sacred silence
to mention that you rise again.
You do. How else could we bear it?
Today is good Friday.
Today is also Easter,
for we are Easter people,
hope and life are irrevocably
part of the air we breathe.
Because you.
Still, we are Good Friday people,
people of the cross. People of
the day you lapped up death
for us.
again.
So we can lap up this air – Love
that holds everything together,
that tastes a bit like gall today,
but is Love all the same.

Holy Week — day five, Maunday Thursday

My co-worker once told me,
as I dusted unwanted espresso grounds onto the floor,
and into my sweaty, tired shoes,
that the coffee grounds and sweat
were probably making a mighty fine americano in there.
I wear those same shoes to work most every day.
Sweat on
sweat on
dirt on
sweat.
These are the feet that you washed.
These plain and smelly feet,
bad at fasting
and listening
and sitting still,
probably still covered in unwanted coffee.
Bad at loving,
good at fidgeting,
and jumping to the wrong conclusions
with great gusto and pride.
These feet, who will turn from you
and call themselves pious,
poor things.
These are the feet you washed.
Love must not fear the flailing love of us,
nor fear the stench and filth of living.
No, this is what love embraces hardest.