At the Cross

A poem for Good Friday

I huddle at the foot of the Cross,

My arms stretched to encompass it around,

My head bowed,

My eyes pinched so tightly they hurt.

Silent sobs wrack my being.

The men are gone.

The Brotherhood, save one, has forsaken the Master.

Other women stand,

Bow,

Lie prostrate nearby,

Each alone,

Forsaken,

Desperate,

Desolate.

I hear their weeping off in the distance,

At the perimeter of my own sorrow.

Roman soldiers stand silent,

Trying to understand,

Yet bound merely to a duty.

Scribes, Pharisees, Sadduccees

Cluster together and mutter into their self-righteous beards,

Rehearsing their excuses.

Their mumbling blends, segues into the rumbling of a gathering storm.

Messiah, on the Cross, lifts His head to Heaven.

With one last lingering remnant of strength,

He pushes against the spike that holds His feet,

Pulls up on the nails that pierce His wrists,

Draws in a gurgling breath,

Licks His lips to moisten them, to make speech possible,

And cries out to the Father Whose Face is turned away.

"It is finished!"

A pronouncement that will echo throughout Eternity.

I look up as His weary, abused head

Sinks

To His bosom,

Where so many children had rested their heads

And received His blessing.

A drop of His vermilion Blood

Rolls down one of the thorns

That comprises a crude crown.

In one interminable moment,

I watch it

Fall;

I tip my face downward in shame,

Knowing my own unworthiness,

Yet yearning for His anointing.

That Sacred Drop

Splashes on my head and covers me over.

The Earth begins to tremble.

~Copyright 2007 by Sharon Kirk Clifton