Good Friday

You are the bread broken for me.

The matzah bread broken, hidden and found again.

You are the Lamb of  God, slain for the sins of the world.

You were wounded for my transgression,

And bruised for my iniquities.

Your bore my sorrows on the cross.

The chastisement for my peace was upon You.

By Your wounds I am healed.

Gratitude!

That You wept in the garden.

Receiving the cup, though it meant

The Father would have to turn His Face

Away.

Holiness could not gaze upon the sin

You became.

You became sin for me.?!

All my iniquity, passed down through generations.

On your back.

My transgressions. My sorrow. My sickness.

Darkening the Holiness of You.

Until You were no longer visible.

You became sin.

But the grave. The black, prideful hole of defiance

Was swallowed up in

VICTORY!

Spring

Unbridled happiness
As I wiggle fingers down
Under your mantle and feel
Stiff shoots
Pull back and SEE
Still buried,
Safe under last year's dying.
Hosta!
Anticipating the unfurling
Of your glamourous garments.

Blood red cresting the soil
Poison with bitter stalk
Only gentled by a bowl of sweetness
When we cut you and still cringe at
you so tart, in the summer

I rest the soil and leaves
Back down
Press you covered
In case winter
Unleashes another fury.

So still you lie
Quiet waiting.
Life abounds
Despite the uncertainty
of Spring.

Mourning Love

Mourning doves softly crooning love

Cooing, fluffing

Feathered affection

Arching necks

Fluttering, mounting passion...

Consummate this dawning

Then subsiding

Perch beside each other

Up on the rails

This lovely, lusty morning.