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


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.”


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.


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.


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.

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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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