Tension

I held his gaze
for a lifetime

eternity
compressed within a second

eyes locked
in unspoken pain
and understanding

recognition
of a calling
too high
to walk away from
whatever
the excruciating cost

I knew about calling

and the cost of his
couldn’t have been higher

with every nerve in my body
I felt the inevitability of it

every
twist and turn
of the journey
every road
from the stable to now
had been leading
towards this path
propelling me
into this sword piercing pain
the agony
of watching him
steadily walk
towards his certain death

apology
love
fear
broken dreams
a lifetime of emotion
filled the air between us

we dare not let ourselves
come close
for fear
the nearness would break us
our love for each other
draw him away
from the call

I busied myself
bit my lip
got on with the difficult business
of being ordinary

Thursday Morning

this was the day

the hour
had nearly come

early in the morning
he rose to pray

slipped away
from the twelve

and watching
the gentle, soft light
of dawn
infuse the edges of the clouds
with brightness

he whispered

however you want this day
to unfold

let it be

let your glory
shine

Kingdom Scars

streaked with the blood
of the Christ,
the hideous wood
is beautified,
timber
now bearing scars
of the pivotal Kingdom event,
the carpenter’s imprint
on the cross,
the patterning
of the one who hung there
cardinal red
on the grain,
the Master craftsman
fashioning
his final piece
in wood,
a beautiful work
of eternal
significance.

The Crushing

crushed
he said

this
from one
so ultra calm
so quietly unflappable

my soul
is crushed with grief
crushed to the point of death

not that he needed
to voice it
his whole body language
betrayed the truth of it

suddenly
everything had changed
our Passover celebration
become
a veritable nightmare
the flight to freedom
revisited
as headlong plunge
into deep despair

what kind of God was this
this Abba
whom he cried to?

what kind of God
would choose to crush
salvation
into being?

what kind of God
was this?

Bittersweet Gethsemane

olives
rained down like bullets
on the ground,
branches
violently shook

his face
contorted in pain,
his clenched fists
roared against the tree
as if flailing in anguish ‘
against the totality
of his creation,
the whole
sorry mess of it
and this moment
it had led him to

his was a tough love,
love of the toughest
most bittersweet kind

and now,
his whole life
hurtling towards its climax,
his divinity
fought the intensity
of mortal weakness
and his human face
revealed itself

Abba
take this cup away


anger
grief
vulnerability
wrestled with the calling

tensions
exploded from within him
as the inner battle
raged

until finally
it was over

he was spent

his whole body
slumped,
relaxed exhaustion
overcame him
and the greater calling
restored itself
to its rightful place
within his mind

in a whisper
the words came

yet not my will
but yours
be done

peace
strengthened him

the hour
had come

Private Moment

. Mark 11.11

silently
reflectively,
adulation of the crowd
still ringing in his ears,
he climbed
the temple steps
entered once more
the place
that had drawn him back,
the holy space
that had been ever drawing him
over thirty three years of life
and long generations of history

destiny
held him
in a private moment
inside the great
echoing silence
of the sacred space

it was late
it was lonely
the end was near

the crowds didn’t understand

silently,
before the
place of sacrifice,
his hands
caressing the altar
as one would a woman,
he remembered Isaac’s son
and the sparing
and knew
that this time
it had to be different

and the coldness
of the polished stone
shivered through him

it was cold
it was late
it was lonely

the end

was near

Salvation Symphony

resonant
ringing sound
of hammer head on nail
echoes
across Calvary
reverberates
vibrant
victorious
cymbal-like
first clashing note
of the final
carefully orchestrated movement
of God’s symphony
of Salvation

metal
drives through flesh
and crimson life-blood
of the Christ
spills out
upon the timber altar
of the cross

the finale
has begun

and the unflinching Saviour
turns his head
to watch the lead percussionist
steady the nail

and He sees

that it is good

Blood on the Ground

when her eyes
could bear
to look at him no more
her head
dropped
and finally
her brave composure shattered
a great releasing
flow of grief
consumed her shaking body

and John’s
strong arms
wrapped themselves tightly round her
sharing the pain
holding her together
in her brokenness

and when the tears
had run their painful course
her vacant eyes
stared blindly
through the watery veil
at the bloodstains
by her feet
the blood of her son
colouring the Golgotha dust

and her mind went back
to another time
another lonely place
when it was her blood
staining a dusty stable floor
blood of her womb
outpoured
in his birthing

to a time
when she had made
her sacrifice
given her virginal womb
to the purposes of God

and as another
deep
red
globule
fell to the ground
she knew
that this was her blood too
another sacrifice by her
and part of her
was dying with him

and another tear
broke loose

Red

poem inspired by this image:
by Joerg Lehmann
(c) Pinotage wines


the true vine
weeps

deep
red
juice

down the timbers
of the cross

blood of the new covenant
pouring itself
from his wounds

the fruit of his life
crushed
into rich
red
eucharistic wine

sacrificing
the one
true life
to give life

the vine
weeps

deep
celebratory
red

The Timber

with the poignant love
of one who knows
the pain that is to come

he fingered
the grain of the wood
touched it
reverently
felt every nuance of its texture
ran his hand
along its roughness
gazed
at its patterning

saw deep below
its splintered outer surface
to the beauty
at its heart

pressed his face
against the timber
felt the strength of it
breathed in the smell of it
buried his mind
in its touch and its scent

a soft
woody fragrance
stirring echoes
of childhood

memories of
the toddler in the sawdust
at his father’s feet

images of youth
the young man
learning the carpenter’s trade
but knowing
always knowing
there was other work
for him to do

and his mother
speaking softly
telling
and re-telling
again and again
always with affection
the story
of the manger

a crib at his birth
a cross at his death

timber
framing his life

his whole history
flashed across his mind
as he fingered
held
breathed in the scent of
the wood
memories
mingling with the pain

there was something
completely right
about this death which was his destiny

he was ready

now was the hour

he stooped
to shoulder a piece of wood
for one last time

The Cup

a rule breaker
to the end
inviting us to drink blood
it was only wine of course
but he was saying
it was his blood

somehow
that was significant
yet it went against the grain
of all our Jewish sensitivities
to drink
blood

it was another mystery
another conundrum

we couldn’t begin to get our thoughts
around the questions
racing through our heads
that night

only later
a very long time later
did the faintest
chink of understanding
start to filter through

a sacrificial lamb

the ultimate
never needed again
sacrificial lamb

that’s what he was

pouring his blood out

for us