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!