Good
Friday
By
Alyson Schroll
I’m
pushed forward as I watch the conviction.
Pilate
has shuffled in and out of those closed doors.
I
saw, once, his shoulders begin to shake,
His
hands start to sweat, and lip twitch with each phrase.
Justice
has never transpired quite like this before.
Maybe
it’s Pilate’s flimsy stance that makes me wonder, but,
I
just can’t accept that worry is the end.
I'm
tossed around as I follow the masses.
The
crowds’ sandals trample the trail of blood,
Of
a Man who only enraged by doing good.
Although
they followed him through cities and places,
These
people are now red with violence and hate.
Maybe
it’s His lack of hate that makes me wonder, but
I
just can’t accept that anger is the end.
I’m
left alone as I notice the onlookers.
The
men and woman standing at a distance,
Half-watching,
hiding, but listening to His mumbled words.
Perhaps
the power to utilize His existence,
Was
now, just a murdered hope, a dream burned.
Maybe
it’s the space they keep from Him that makes me wonder, but
I
just can’t accept that sadness is the end.
I
can’t define what I feel right now,
But
I just can’t accept that this Man’s death is the end.
~~~
Commentary:
My
pastor asked me to write a poem to be presented at the 2015 Good Friday service
at my church. This was one of the very rare times that I could write something
specifically asked of me. My goal for this poem was to show that we always look
at the event of Christ's death subjectively. We cannot objectively view the
tragedy because we know he wins the battle against death. But, what about all
those people who didn't know Christ's death wasn't the end? This poem explains
some of the possible feelings those members of the crowd felt.
I feel this unsettling in my gut as I read your words. The power of the cross humbles me.
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