For Holy Week

Posted April 6, 2015 @ 10:37am | by Tripp


Cloth-draped cruciformity
Hangs from the rafters
No words may sully
The neatly-ordered
Tale of betrayal,
Blood, and sweat.
Today is one of
Those days when I
Am reminded that I
Cannot get there
From here.


And they call this day "good."

What has been done
Cannot be undone
There are no reparations
Only hollow promises of
Redemption and release
She stands in the shadow
Awaiting resurrection and
Recollects for us a time
When as a child she was told
Not to sing. Sometimes
Courage is a child singing


I cannot for the life
Of me remember a
Time when my heart
Did not ache for a
Place or moment or 
Smiling face that I might
Recognize and would
In turn recognize me
The self-imposition of
loneliness is like ashes
Upon my forehead, my
Solitude a cloak of 
Sackcloth and ostentatious


Enshrouded in God's Love, I am entombed in Grace and anointed with the promise of more. I do not know if I have the patience to wait out Death or the courage to harrow Hell itself. I am struck down by my own words and the urgings of my heart. Here I make my own end.


I am preparing for the Great Vigil.
Packing up a lifetime of regrets and
Remorse, I make my way uphill,
Through the doors, and into the 
Courtyard. There, with the others,
I will gather around flame and song.
I shall stand in the dark while God's
Primordial flames begin to burn it
All away. My chaff. My hurts, both 
Afflicted and inflicted. With heart
Outstretched I will sing and walk
And pray that in the moment of 
Light I might know what it is to 
Be born again. Hæc nox est.

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