In 40 days,
we'll stand beside the stone
dropped in the dew-wet grass
beside our dew-wet feet
before our tear-wet eyes,
while dawn and bird dawn-chorus
echo back our joys.
Today, our eyes are dry
and we forget, between
the dishes and the wash machine
majestic sweetness
in Your voice.
We cannot see beyond the screen
the darkness of Gethsemane,
or feel beyond our creaking chair
the heavy cross you had to bear.
Teach us again to taste and see,
the goodness of Your body,
drained of blood, but not of Love,
which bids us follow
till we reach again,
the fallen stone,
the folded linen clothes,
the moment when
we turn again,
hearing Your voice.
No comments:
Post a Comment