There is a passion that rends the skies
dark of pain, to thunder forth
in this suffering world;
Grace that rains and brings forth
an oasis of refuge in this
world weak of flesh;
The spirit rises weighed on the cross
by the suffering inflicted in place
of Barabbases, thousands.
In the dunes of the desert, a call echoes:
husbandsman, tinkerman, everyman,
Never mind the pharisees;
The spirit to the letter is moon
to the mirage.
Weighed down by the burden of life,
you who have been told you deserve
nothing more than the dirt of the earth
you sinner, you sufferer,
A passion calls forth to you. So difficult
indeed is to see the father, aye,
lawmongers, enough for us to see
this humble son of a carpenter here;
O you crushed
under the wagon wheels of time
taste that love by which you are
before Abraham was.
Come, be pillars
in the mansion of your father;
Tiller toiling away in the sweat of life,
you on whose shoulders walk
the sweet-talking liars
who yet enthroned say
you are worth
only more taxation,
You can part waters. You are a miracle.
You drive away ghosts. You can
call the dead to life. Yet you are
love and see no difference
in Mary from Mary,
a secret ocean at the shore of an oasis
to drink of, until we are here
as He is in heaven.
Heaven for us to see and live here
not some unknowable hereafter.
Don't know how to describe this... liberation theology, or an inspiration, contemplating the approaching Good Friday...
Edited: 9/4/20 ('mirage' instead of 'rippled reflection')