glimpses of his face
upon leaving the parade
wisps of confetti and hurrahs floating in our brains
palm branches remain scattered in our minds
and one on a donkey passes by, looking, intently – as if into our very souls
seven days our watching, from afar or close by
perfume scents the air before a feast of delicacies spread
she has broken open her heart and the vial of treasure
for sharing silent tearful words of holy drops, his feet touched
tainted tables in the Temple crash to the floor
his voice echoing off the marble walls in defiance
of mistreatment upon those come to worship,
who is there in this company, over-priced dove in hand?
friend/companion arranges the ill-fated movement of betrayal
we ponder motive - angst, skepticism … despair or truth
loft dinner for a chosen few; ‘tis good to be included
what will he have new – in song or word – for us this night?
night that never ended and never will
garden dew, strangers’ grip, off and away
we watch him disappear into the courts
early morning and far too many people in the streets
choices offered between the two
but we have no part do we, as he appears
tattered and torn, enduring, suffering
interrogation and courage
only the weight of that devilish cross spans
our perception of the moment, his breath in our face
his eyes once again in our gaze
to the deafening silence of death
a holy week.
by Rev. Mary Anne Akin, April 2020
Whitney R. Simpson
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Whitney R. Simpson,
Exploring Peace Ministries, unless otherwise indicated.
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