Good Friday

GOOD FRIDAY.

Year after year

I followed the Cross - 

hail, rain, or sun -

down the broken road,

gathering the people,

smiling at the pubs and shops,

stopping at the turns

and singing plaints

about this stumbling way.

Then, leaving the battered Cross

high on the Calvary 

of our London village,

we moved towards Easter.

This year was different.

The hollowing out

within me

left by Passiontide,

called new life

to seed, to grow, to spring

and I am weak

with Resurrection Glory.

If I stay patient

with the nails,

they turn into

songbirds and alleluias

dancing by the empty tomb.

          Mary McKeone rscj.