POETRY | Good Friday
my heart is sick
the poet says
and I feel it, too
how could you die, God?
my heart is sick
the poet says
and my head hurts
trying to comprehend
this world that we live in
when evil seems to have won the day
when hatred, suffering, and invisible viruses
haunt us
Your death, O God, was not peaceful
you were beaten, ridiculed
you suffered alone
you died
and you stayed dead for three days
you don’t need to be reminded.
but we do
because the dark parts of our story are hidden
in the news of Easter
and we don’t like dwelling there
three days of being alone
being apart
being depressed
And yet here we are
without the rhythms to carry us through
except you gave us a rhythm
a path to follow through the darkness
you promise we will make it through
keep our eyes peeled for the sunrise
keep our ears hearing the life that continues
keep our hearts beating
even as we remember yours stopped
—DMH