Each drop of blood on the road to Golgotha

was matched with a thousand tears of mine.

I, who held Christmas in my body, saw Him carry the tree

and decorate it dank with blood, dark with death.

Oh, the carols he sighed. “Father Forgive Them.”

“I Thirst.” “Son, Behold Your Mother.” What Father would forgive?

What gall could quench that Voice? What Son

could give his mother away on that God forsaken hill?

And then, Hallelujah Chorus: “It Is Finished!”

I gave up the ghosts of Christmas Past and Present

with one vast, vacant, virulent voice wailing, “No!

Oh God on earth, no!” I stood like a tree in a forest fire,

my limbs flaming, my bones charred and breaking, my words

robbed of oxygen by the presence of Hell ripped open, exposed

by nailed Hands; by lifeless hands devoid of

Yet-To-Come.

 

Then, I woke to find the bed curtains still there,

the dead body gone, the Son returned as red

and irresistible morning. Son, behold your mother

alive again, embraced and embracing. It Is Started!

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