From time to time, I've posted poems about Good Friday, like this one, and this one. Here is this year's offering.
DIVESTMENT: A Good Friday Poem
By Mitali Perkins
Who speaks, I wonder?
Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they do. Who can request this—as nails tear bones and flesh—but Divinity?
The emptying begins.
Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in paradise. Enough Power still to Promise.
Woman, behold your son. Son, behold your mother. Some Strength left to Shepherd.
But Kairos is slipping away. He's divesting. Next comes the ancient question of Humanity, the wail of those trapped in chains of chronology.
My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?
I thirst. Oh! It's the primal cry of a Child, the Sick, the Old, anyone too weak to sate this need unaided.
It is finished. In one fading moment, the thunder of God and whisper of Man co-utter parallel declarations.
Father, into your hands I commend my spirit. The frightening freedom of faith, breathed by faint and feeble voice.
Now all is silence. He is crushed by powerless me, drained of Divinity, driven to dust only by this: his quest to liberate and rule with me.
And so I try to speak.
DIVESTMENT: A Good Friday Poem
By Mitali Perkins
Who speaks, I wonder?
Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they do. Who can request this—as nails tear bones and flesh—but Divinity?
The emptying begins.
Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in paradise. Enough Power still to Promise.
Woman, behold your son. Son, behold your mother. Some Strength left to Shepherd.
But Kairos is slipping away. He's divesting. Next comes the ancient question of Humanity, the wail of those trapped in chains of chronology.
My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?
I thirst. Oh! It's the primal cry of a Child, the Sick, the Old, anyone too weak to sate this need unaided.
It is finished. In one fading moment, the thunder of God and whisper of Man co-utter parallel declarations.
Father, into your hands I commend my spirit. The frightening freedom of faith, breathed by faint and feeble voice.
Now all is silence. He is crushed by powerless me, drained of Divinity, driven to dust only by this: his quest to liberate and rule with me.
And so I try to speak.
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| Via Dolorosa, Jerusalem |