"Jesus wept and died"
I always wondered what that meant.
Is it an admonition to us to do the same?
Like, "Life sucks, and then you die"?
Or, if Jesus died for our sins,
did he first weep for our sins --
a holy pity party embracing us all?
So, our sins have been wept for, died for;
we carry the blood and tears of the Lamb
on our souls.
Perhaps that would be best blessed, if we
rejoiced and laughed and hugged and forgave
and generally enjoyed the feast of life
to balance the weeping and dying and love.
For joy balances weeping;
life balances death;
and love, of course,
is the only balance to love.
Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine Jesus cried, and somebody grinned -- don't whine Jesus smiled his love on the least, scattered his manna that the lowly might feast All you remember is that slavering Beast so remind me why you find daring to share peace of mind in kindness less than Divine
Locked in a keyhole
a romance gone AWOL,
a sad bitter song badly sung.
Mad voices lie to our young,
encrypt failure as beggar’s choice.
Born to be property, Innocent of means to judge,
a man of pride, complete his beautiful
bride, be his family retreat from
right and wrong.
. . .
Jesus, before His Destiny
removed Him from common ribaldry,
banter and shoving that score for a man,
secure his order among fellow men,
Jesus loved the children even then.
He dared to imagine a gentle love, free
from bullies’ shaming, from easy blaming,
from traumatic scars of social war.
He believed in us, human kin, above
Fatherly humor, the way fathers love
their children, with the pride of
ownership and the slave master’s
God disciplines His Heir.
Gentle rosy raindrops of a mellow morning,
Children make the day – it's Spring.
I thought of Christ in Church this morning,
nailed to His cross in long ago Jerusalem,
arising to springtime, the earth's reawakening.
It's a time for children and games of childhood,
a time for playing with love,
secret smiles and daisy chains.
It's a time for the simple and natural
A time for anointing the soul in peace
after the ravages of winter.
A time for gentle things
like newborn kittens
and flowerbuds after the rain.
I am slowly relearning the healing strength of love,
Slowly relearning the simple pleasures of humanity.
Life is sweet, poignant,
a drifting melody.
At the Table
You want your fond place at the table
You want to be a fellow jolly good "so say we all."
I tell you, the table is vastly laden with
layers of little memories, which
no two see the same.
We arrive at the feast
hungry for virtue, for love, for
forgiveness of our wanton ways;
willing to be merry, to partake of
ritual, merging through
Constellations, moving, shifting,
making waves in our collective
consciousness, appear to reveal
sparkling impulses of truth.
On that warm, wet evening
taking in the sweet, evocative air,
embracing untranslated joy,
something catches in our throats.
The song we need so desperately
to share can only emerge in shards.
The pain, sucked in with our breath,
becomes one with the bread and wine.
This is the blood, the body,
marinated in salty tears, preserving
what has not yet found
Again, and yet again
meeting, to take sustenance.
Hungry battle wounds
to imbibe the healing