The Black Messiah

They pushed the cross over and his body banged the earth,

His eyes wide staring, blood dried and his mouth of love

set in rictus like a scream as he gasped for one more breath,

his skin the colour of mahogany, peeled and a burned by 

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the sun which touched him, naked and humiliated as he

hung visible in front of the before baying crowd, who

lately remembered his crippled hands’ gentle touch 

of loving healing, his thorn, torn ear hearing every word.

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Gently they lowered him onto a sheet, and took him to 

the whitened sepulchre, a spectre of nothingness, hiding

the merit of mercy, the goodness of grace, a passionate

being whose desire for us exceeded our darkest imagining

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of an avenging God, of righteous anger, a harbinger of 

horror, to reveal the truth of a generous God of abnegation,

who weeps over our plight and pledges to give all

out of love for our love even his life. The cold stone

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met the overheated form, flowers flowed around,

and herbs him adorned to stifle the stench of the

the earth bound flesh suborned by self sacrifice, and

the stone shuts giving time for the King of Kings 

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to release his eternal self and reunited he sleeps

and wakes, walks free of the shackles of human

existence within his heart the woundedness

of each human and their healing. His chosen one 

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comes, his dark eyes see her beautiful tear driven 

anguish, as she greets the gardener, “Tell me where 

he is laid. The Tomb is empty.”  Grief engulfs him 

as he says her name, “Mary.” and in that moment

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earth and heaven became one as expectation and hope

unite and the body broken on the cruel, cursed cross 

walks towards her and suddenly everything lost

is all things possible, “Teacher!” creation cries.

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The Prayer of Good Friday

 

Was it the cross that wounded his soul?

As it tore at his every breath,

or the nails as they tore into flesh,

and thorns that shocked his skull,

even the lashes gouging out his flesh,

was their terror his true torment? Or

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was it in the garden, where he made

a choice? Where he sweated blood, 

as the tortured do, and begged his

Father to let him stay heal and care.

“Yet, not my will,” he said, “but yours.”

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The pain of parting and leaving a job,

part done. Leaving it in the hands of

the earth bound ones, to fight to scrap

to argue about ethics and kill each other.

to fight over the very meaning of a word.

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Yet the truth he left to you and me

is simply to love Him, our neighbours

as ourselves, for the new world to dawn.

To care as Jesus did and to live

opposing prejudice and poverty.

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Then, we shall see the kingdom come,

we shall smooth his bloodied brow

and set a smile on a face grimaced

in terror of the next breath, and those

fractured feet will walk free again.

The Nativity

She bent over in agony and rage,

the pain in her belly burrowing

into her head and heart, her soul,

while the farting animals watched.

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Her stolen insides were hardening

as she fought with her body to 

bring to the light a boy that

would one day fight with his own

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high on the tree. As blood seeped 

high on the tree, as blood seeped 

from her womb, it flowed from him

who brought her tears of joy

and a graveyard  lament

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with birth pangs that gripped

her grief contracting vision,

stretching her, God cried out 

in agony, as Christ is born.

Prophesy!

It isn’t hard to prophesy doom and galloping

gloom from an easy chair or a prison cell,

when we delight in digging into trenches

of opinions and weigh in with bombs,

while profits are purloined and people

pushed to the precipices.

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‘It will all end in tears,’ trivially trips 

off tongues, and falls on the deaf eardrums 

of determined individuals who want nothing 

more than to pretend their way is perfect.

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Proper prophecy is of the light that breaks 

through dark clouds and sows the hatred and 

doubt with forgiveness and love. A light that 

illuminates the darkest hour with hope.

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Luminosity that binds the broken hearted

and lifts the depressed in loving arms

stills the savagest breast while holding

the cherished child in an embrace of joy.

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Joy at the little things, animals, butterflies

as well as the elephants, forests and oceans,

all things that only love can liberally flow and

live in them freeing and filling, so

that their loveliness grows and grows.

Weeping Angels

The dust baked blood caked, 

form flew into a space

beneath the breeze, black, blocks;

and laying her sweet

head she stilled

in death.

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The bombs blown, rained, down

and little mites murdered

dying amidst dust, and

and not one to note

their passing,

from life.

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A child’s shrill cry filled

a ransacked rumbling building

while over his ruined blooded

body butchers will

claim this is

God’s will.

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Not so, the weeping angels greeted

as they raised up

broken bodies to new souls,

to sit 

on Christ’s knee, whose

tears wiped their terrors

and losses and loved their

trembling souls; and sheltered

them

from

men

and 

women

who have sold their souls to Satan.