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 


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.


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


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


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 


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 


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


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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margins are a great place sometimes because it is where change happens fastest but it is also a horrible place when we are stuck in them and grace is the moment when we can see that someone cares.

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