The church is Good Friday.
Darkness burnt into blackness,
abysmal absence of anything good.
We acknowledge that death is real
and we tremble for a world that would kill its God.
Our feet stand in quicksand;
our voices echo sterile silence.
We huddle together to meet the dark and the death,
forgetting what was taught us,
forgetting that somewhere
a seed is sprouting
somewhere
a child is growing.
All we see is Christ crucified.
The church is Easter.
Out of death: Life.
Out of darkness:
a lush green world
flowers in the ice
sunrays in the storm
sunrays in the storm
mustard seeds galore.
Our souls enter a spiritual springtime,
our bodies given over to leaping and dancing,
our very beings saturated in hosannas.
Our shouting crashes in upon this world:
The Lord lives!
We live!
Resurrection resounds throughout our community.
-Ann Weems
Living in Bethlehem
No comments:
Post a Comment