Saturday

Saturday:
A Poem

The weight of God’s death hangs heavy in the air.
The demons emboldened by presumed earthly victory.
The spirit of pride is prowling, my friends, Beware!
The earth shivers and the sky sobs at the mystery.

The Timeless One, entombed, addressed in past tense.
The Word, breathless, made bereft of the Spirit of incarnation.
The Good Shepherd betrayed by His sheep in silence.
The Creator judged by the created for condescending to creation.

Oh, Irony! You wicked weapon of humors and wars—
You pierce the heart of rhetoric and perfect hindsight.
Let God arise and silence the chortling demon mores.
The Uncaused is not subject to effect, so we wait in respite.

How Long, Oh Lord, could your body remain lifeless?
How long until You conquer hades and render death painless?

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