On the day of the great silence,
the sun did not rise;
the earth is wordless;
all of creation holding its breath,
making sense of the brutal execution
for the entertainment of the savages.
“Was it all a folly?”
Devout acolytes hide dismay in faint breeze,
oscillating between fear and faith;
Restless, feeble, panting wraith
men of god they were, ‘til swayed disoriented
for the God-man lay dead in a tomb,
whilst Hades danced in voracious darkness.
Anxious as they await, anxiously I wait
for any sign of hope from the supposed Begotten
A day without hope is a thousand years of hell,
thence, we cling onto memories,
allowing them to pump out of our eyelids,
but pain seems to blur past graces too soon;
soon enough, for the hurting to believe he's forsaken;
soon enough, for me to demolish thine words
and reconstruct my own creed--
One that which may serve many;
One that would bring me assurance, if any.
But the heart never stops hurting--
beating, however, decaying;
the recess of life still awaits Your touch,
Why have You gone silent?
Weren’t You the promised One?
I beg for a sigh, a proof of Life
Better is a heavenly groan than hellish melodies
Call it black Saturday,
Call it dark, crestfallen age
until Thy prove it otherwise.
Apr 19, 2022
Apr 19, 2022 at 7:32 AM UTC
On the day of the great silence,
the sun did not rise;
the earth is wordless;
all of creation holding its breath,
making sense of the brutal execution
for the entertainment of the savages.
“Was it all a folly?”
Devout acolytes hide dismay in faint breeze,
oscillating between fear and faith;
Restless, feeble, panting wraith
men of god they were, ‘til swayed disoriented
for the God-man lay dead in a tomb,
whilst Hades danced in voracious darkness.
Anxious as they await, anxiously I wait
for any sign of hope from the supposed Begotten
A day without hope is a thousand years of hell,
thence, we cling onto memories,
allowing them to pump out of our eyelids,
but pain seems to blur past graces too soon;
soon enough, for the hurting to believe he's forsaken;
soon enough, for me to demolish thine words
and reconstruct my own creed--
One that which may serve many;
One that would bring me assurance, if any.
But the heart never stops hurting--
beating, however, decaying;
the recess of life still awaits Your touch,
Why have You gone silent?
Weren’t You the promised One?
I beg for a sigh, a proof of Life
Better is a heavenly groan than hellish melodies
Call it black Saturday,
Call it dark, crestfallen age
until Thy prove it otherwise.
