I think the Gospel writers
forgot some things about Saturday
in the joy of Easter Sunday.
The silent aching anger.
Maybe the men passed around a bottle
of Old Jerusalem whiskey
to dull the pain of being reminded
How close torture and sudden death
really are.
The stray bullet on the corner,
the bullied teen at the middle school,
the officer too eager to draw his gun.
One of them mumbles to himself
as he thinks of packing up and going back
to Galilee
"If they come for me in the morning,
they'll come for you in the afternoon."
While in the kitchen
the women
pack spices for anointing
and clothes to wash the body.
Trying to avoid the truth that they're going
not to an old one who has died
full of years
But to the mangled body
of one tortured to death
bloodied and broken.
A friend they had loved.
They will go
Like women have gone throughout the centuries
To prepare the body
of another crushed one.
One more day on the land of Empire.
forgot some things about Saturday
in the joy of Easter Sunday.
The silent aching anger.
Maybe the men passed around a bottle
of Old Jerusalem whiskey
to dull the pain of being reminded
How close torture and sudden death
really are.
The stray bullet on the corner,
the bullied teen at the middle school,
the officer too eager to draw his gun.
One of them mumbles to himself
as he thinks of packing up and going back
to Galilee
"If they come for me in the morning,
they'll come for you in the afternoon."
While in the kitchen
the women
pack spices for anointing
and clothes to wash the body.
Trying to avoid the truth that they're going
not to an old one who has died
full of years
But to the mangled body
of one tortured to death
bloodied and broken.
A friend they had loved.
They will go
Like women have gone throughout the centuries
To prepare the body
of another crushed one.
One more day on the land of Empire.
Silent Saturday
I think I dread Saturday most of all.
That place of cold, bleak numbness
after garden
betrayal
and cross.
After agonizing shuddered last breath,
body wrapped in linen
or body bag.
Laid in tomb
or coroner's wagon.
Silence.
Forsaken, beyond alone.
Between Good Friday
and Easter... maybe
When God is doing
whatever God is doing
far away from where I can see
And feels no need to let me know.
Saturday
When I remember
all the words and deeds I wish had been
in an effort to forget the ones I regret
While I gather my anointing spices
and my wash clothes
to take care of the body in the morning.
That place of cold, bleak numbness
after garden
betrayal
and cross.
After agonizing shuddered last breath,
body wrapped in linen
or body bag.
Laid in tomb
or coroner's wagon.
Silence.
Forsaken, beyond alone.
Between Good Friday
and Easter... maybe
When God is doing
whatever God is doing
far away from where I can see
And feels no need to let me know.
Saturday
When I remember
all the words and deeds I wish had been
in an effort to forget the ones I regret
While I gather my anointing spices
and my wash clothes
to take care of the body in the morning.