Good Friday

The poem below is a refraction of Jesus’ experience on the cross with an episode from my teenage years.

 

Good Friday

My father, my father, why have you forsaken me?

A cry of dereliction from parched lips.

Real words unspoken yet perfectly formed, through

Knotted stomach and coughed up bile.

So can time heal this pain and this fear?

Utter rejection—can it found some greater purpose?

Entering something new by painful paradigm shift?

Not a path you would choose, but a new road all the same.

So many fathers and so many sons—

Broken relationships over decades and centuries lie.

Yet at least one broken son in history

Crystallised magnalia Dei though he did die.