Good Friday (for Dad)

It seems like a misnomer

at first,

or a bit of black humor…

“Good” Friday….

the day when betrayal

came with a kiss;

the day when the seconds were marked

by whip-cracks,

and hammers tolled

like bells;

the day that clouds closed

like eyelids over a dying sun;

the day the earth shook

as if in a sieve.

And now

(as if it wasn’t

“good”

enough already),

it is also the day

you died.

A tomb sealed with a stone…

A coffin nailed shut…

A grave covered with dirt…

The good news is

this is as dark as it gets.

"For God, who said, 'Let light shine out of darkness,' made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ" (2 Cor. 4:6).  

Waiting for Snow

“WHAT A GYP!!”

With raised fist and gnarled face

I accuse the skies.

I have been waiting for snow,

wishing for snow,

praying, hoping, and fishing for snow.

I have been daring snow,

oh where-ing snow, and

(for reverse psychology’s sake)

not-give-a-care-ing snow.

All this and not one single flake.

But as my fist drops and my eyes come back to earth,

I sigh,

“God knows best.”

And this is the proof:

that between the second coming

and the fall of man,

I can get so worked up about something

like the weather,

and can fill a book with idle words

by which to be judged.

(Did I say not one single flake?

Well, there might be one here…)

Yet, I believe you understand.

I believe you do not think it petty

to be a man,

or to care for the sparrow,

or to pour artistry

into the icy iron-work

whose feathery falling

makes winter crunch deliciously

like the year’s dessert.

For this season

you precipitated:

spirit crystallized as flesh,

deity danced where the wind willed—

out from its cloudy veil,

down through empty skies,

and into arms that waited

faithfully.

Hymne to God the Father*

Before time

            your counsels chose

            that you would lose

eternal ties

            with your one

            and only Son.

Not sparing Him,

            you let the whips

            fall and the blood drip.

Judges condemned

            as the priests quipped.

On a dark hill,

            like Abraham,

            you left your Lamb.

No bright angel

            unveiled a ram

snared in thickets

            by its horns.

            Instead, the thorns

on Christ’s head caught

            the sacrifice

            of God’s own life.

Nails split

            His wrists and feet

            and severed sweet

communion, which

            left you bereaved.

Not even birth

            pangs compare to

            what you went through

at your Son’s death.

            Abba, thank you.

*The form of this poem was borrowed from Hymne to God the Father by Ben Jonson.

 See Ben Jonson's poem here:  http://4umi.com/jonson/hymn

Arise Beautiful One

My lover spoke and said to me,
“I tell you the truth, a time is coming and has now come
when the dead will hear the voice of the Son of God
and those who hear will live.
Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, and come with me.
See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone.
For as the Father has life in himself,
so he has granted the Son to have life in himself.
Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come,
the cooing of doves is heard in our land.
The fig tree forms its early fruit;
the blossoming vines spread their fragrance.

I am the resurrection and the life.
He who believes in me will live.
Arise, come my darling;my beautiful one, come with me.”

(SOS 2:10-13; John 5:25, 26; 11:25)