Wednesday 21 December 2022

A mystery


The women mourned

at the base of the cross,

attending the wounds.

The nails removed, the earth prepared,

they sang the body home.

The formless forgave the form.


The men roared

and hit the wild sands,

laying the concrete down,

rolling the stones away and

clearing the tombs.

The blood boiled. The path was forged.


They come together, now and then,

when Spirit makes it so

—the woman and man,

the body and blood—

to birth again the Christ

to glorify the infinite.


Forgive me, Almighty.

I know not what I do.

My words are weak and impotent

and hardly start

to grasp

the mystery. 






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