This is where we live; shrouded in darkness
Bearing the indelible marks of death
Saturday. Blackened Saturday.
Hope of Sunday morning’s light breaking through,
Nowhere to be found.
This is where we live; in shock, in grief
Coping with our well worn mechanisms
Food, drink, sex, idle chatter, work
When my mom was dying, my dad went fishing
Like Peter, no hope.
This is where we live; like the first disciples
We have puzzles, riddles, clues
But we have nothing in our lived experience
To indicate that tomorrow will ever come
With hope complete.
This is where we live; cracked and jaded
We give pause and we begin to notice
Matthew, Mark and Luke all account that
It was indeed Saturday, a Sabbath day
I hope I’ve got this right.
But this is where we live; Like Nicodemus
Shrouded in darkness. We come by night
Is it the day of preparation for Passover?
Or Sabbath? Chronology has come unhinged
Have we misplaced our hope?
Are we living in a story without end?
This is where we live; we gather
Once each week to remember
Between days marked by death and sorrow
Fumbling through puzzles, riddles, clues
Hoping there will be a tomorrow.