Loading...What does it mean to await
this coming of the third day
when my heart is shattered
and my will is broken?
Was it only yesterday
when I saw him, writhing
with the piercing of each
hammer strike?
The preparation for our Passover
dinner was silent last night.
The torn temple veil
ripped my tongue
from my mouth.
As I swept the corners
the candles
hissed my anguish.
As I tossed out the leaven
the wolves
mournfully howled in the distance.
Tonight,
our plates will hold the lamb,
the hard-boiled egg,
the bitter herbs,
the mix of apples,
walnuts, and the wine,
cooked potato, and
raw onion.
More bitter herbs.
Bitter herbs and sharp onion,
flavors not harsh enough
to express my anger
at the Romans
who have sealed the tomb,
afraid of what I could --
but would not --
do.
I quickly bake the
unleavened bread
that will crumble in my hands,
crushed in fists
pounding my outrage
that is really my grief.
Four cups of ceremonial wine,
each salted by my tears,
diluted like the mix
of blood and water
as when the spear pierced him.
Nothing will taste the goodness
of our former freedom this night.
Embittered, aggrieved,
resentful, indignant,
the taste of sorrow
stuns.
There is nothing to celebrate today
He is gone, dead,
imprisoned behind solid rock…
alone,
but not forgotten --
never forgotten.
He may have said to
Wait for three days’ time
to be surprised,
to be amazed,
to see him in his glory.
But…
Where is God in my sorrow?
Have I been left behind
to suffer the brutality
of grief
for my belief?
