from Roots Worship, this edition by Keith Wallis
see the complete journey through Holy Week here.
This is a strange compulsion:
to go to that dark place of death,
to reverence an empty body.
We go in sense of duty,
we go in the garb of tradition,
we go with no expectation.
There is easy access to this place:
no barring stone nor guarding soldier
This is the place of death.
Death is all there is to find here.
We can choose to stay,
to minister to nothingness
with our broken hands and shallow souls,
or we can seek the living
in resurrected power.
We can leave in disappointment or in awe.
Saying, “Good morning,” to the gardener
or, “Good God,” to the Lord.
This blood that stills my soul
balm to aching heart
and remover of scars
moves on through time’s passageways.
This blood pretends for instant to be wine;
more palatable, less demanding,
tended by one wounded soul
to a thirsting brother.
This ointment of love
and picture of sacrifice
salves with cooling drop
all the condemnation of fear.