Good Friday

This is a poem my daughter Elizabeth wrote about Good Friday. If you want to understand the imagery, she wrote about it in her blog last year.

The Weeping Sky

The icy, grasping hands of fog

Grip every barren, gnarled tree.

Their shadows in a stagnant pool

Like iron bars encompass me

The fog surrounds my breaking heart,

Veils even Heaven’s constant light.

My eyes turn back to Earth below,

Where what is true cannot be right.

Now Goodness dies by Hate betrayed,

So every cloud in heaven weeps,

Descending to a muddy grave,

The pool in which my spirit sleeps.

The shining teardrops of the sky

Descend to taste the parched earth’s pain,

To bind the earth with Heaven’s love,

A chain of ripples forged in rain.

The teardrops soak an ancient tree

To turn its bark to mournful black,

As purest water turns to mud

And sinks, no hope of turning back,

For Beauty lies, forever scarred,

And Innocence is stained with sin,

Eternal ruler, helpless slave

They mix and die as lives begin.

Weep for your maker, distant clouds.

His blood now soaks the earth like rain.

On icy mud His love pours down

And carries off my heart’s black stain.

A single bird’s cry chimes out clear,

A bell that lifts my eyes to see,

When every hope seemed drowned in fear,

White flowers on the twisted tree.