I look down like a father
on your luxuriant head of burnished hair,
so damp with anguish and despair.
Your arms stretched taut against the cross,
pectoral muscles twisted and taut in final agony.
Your hands are frozen, rigid in trauma,
raw, rough clouts driven through the palms,
all tenderness stolen from your gentle touch.
Stifled, like drowning, your hands and ankles carry
the full weight of your body.
From above, where I am, the afternoon light
illuminates your earthly form and the cross
lacquering it all with suggestive sunshine,
suspending both against the black, vacuous sky.
This is a vertiginous perspective,
I don't feel comfortable here.
Better for me to be kneeling beneath this cross,
or, like a humble fisherman beside his boat,
drawing in salty nets in simple acts beside a lake,
awed and forever thankful
for the magnitude of this offering.
A glorious unveiling, lightning, presence,
a tearing, releasing, breathless running.
News that exploded like soul searing fission,
for Jerusalem, Empire, Age, a tired Earth.
But a touching, a healing, a balm like no other,
the bunting of grace in the shards of cruelty,
the banner of joy for the grimace of sadness.
I remember them well.
Moments that were
meant for metaphors,
the lightning brightness
of his visitation.
No words matched the
thrown open shutters
of his festive presence.
More than angling sunshine
through a bedroom window,
Or sky wide evening embers
in this winter valley.
Like a Lutheran steeple that
snatched my breathing,
surprising my laughter
with its burnished brilliance.
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