Painful Poetry

 

The precious pressure

Of the oil press pounding down,

Grinding soul finer ground.

The soul poured out like oil beaten,

First red, then golden dead.

 

The piercing pain

Of the stinging spike

Pounded down and down.

The weary weight of sin

Pulling ever downward

To the ground.

The gnawing gnashing teeth

Of derision and

Despair from pulling hair

Drags one into the

Contradictory purgatory.

The dry death of disease

Brimstone burning

In the slaked soul.

 

All the gall

In the world couldn’t drown

The parched tongue

Cleaved upward.

The voice that moved

The world now mostly dumb.

The dry desert east wind

Sucks the moisture

From each drop of pooled

And puddled blood.

 

The searing stand

On the raven riven nail,

The breathless fall,

The taunting terror of it all,

The gnawing hunger,

The crackling fear of loss,

Of gold arising from the dross

Fixes one on the cross.

 

 

 

 

The lancinating heartache,

The spear in the side,

The dividing of the  flesh,

But not the garment and

The last miracle of blood

Turned to water

Pouring from the side

Of the Rock of Heaven

Were not enough.

 

The wall of sneering soldiers

Divided Heavenly Him

From the land of the living,

From family and friends,

From disciples and dear ones,

From the nay saying nation,

From the waning wanton world and

From the feinting Father.

 

The gasping breath,

The shuddering sound,

The sucking whisper,

The stammering staccato,

Of the six sayings

Pierces our souls.

The earth and temple

Broke open with

The rending scream

Of the last gasped seventh

Separating lifeless body

From Soaring Spirit:

 

Father,

Into Thy Hands

I commend My Spirit!