The Violence Of The Cross

1.  The Violence Of The Cross

Late one night, over Dunkin Donuts and coffee, I made this offhanded comment about the crucifixion to my college roommate, “At least he [Christ] didn’t have to hang there too long.”  My friend was indignant, “What?!  John, let me tell you a little bit about a crucifixion!” And he went on to describe the horrors of the cross in great detail.  Everything about a cross-death was designed to cause maximum suffering.  It is, perhaps, the cruelest tool of human torture ever devised.  The word excruciate is derived from Latin words that mean “out of the cross.”

At some point during the description, I cut him off.  I was embarrassed and alarmed.  (continue…)

Beautiful Girl

Beautiful girl, you draw me.
I anticipate. My eyes gaze, like
On a starlit night—they
Rise to your skies and remain.

Though I am sometimes stuck
In the city you still appear, still
Come through. I look for you.
You are more than mere light.

So take me tonight, take me
To that country place. Go with
Me to that dark freedom and
Give me your full glory. Let us

Lie close.  Bring a kiss. Capture
Me with your bright face.
The stars are at the window;
They are drawn by our embrace.

Faith, Hope, Love

Faith, awaking from a dream,
Calms the wind and stills our screams. It
Stands, rebuking raging waves and
Speaks that we may be freed slaves.

We stay here in crumbling haunts and
Crumple ‘neath desire’s taunts. We’re
Offered playground swings on chains, but
From the window watch the rains.

Hope, a hungry fire starts.
Sparks fly up and burn our hearts. We
Long for heritage and glory; to be
Great heroes in the story.

Our pallid lips quaff bitter brews. We
Search the dregs for any clues. The
Vestige of our stumbling path
Reveals a way that leads to wrath.

Wearing bold and wild colors,
Setting blazing wild fires,
Love, though we may never say it,
Bests our fine and whited harlot.

Yet we, our remedy, resist. We
Turn away our lover’s kiss. We
Hesitate before the altar,
Scorning freedom’s final offer.

Death By Disagreement

We didn’t see it coming—our death
by disagreement—could not concur
to build up or tear down. So
we gave up on our labors,
cursed our dying saviors,
packed the bags and turned the car around.

We left a cairn to our dispute:
bricks unused and neatly waiting,
neatly sitting in their stacks in quietude.
They eyed our cold defiance and
the looming clouds of violence;
They glared at us in speechless rectitude.

We plunged our leaking pitchers into
murky broken cisterns then
washed our wounds beside the bitter
well. We rubbed our chafing hands
one against the other. A crooked,
stiff and silent spirit fell.

We diminished peace and wisdom
like the leaving out from Eden left
a rotting core of too-much-knowledge fruit.
The temptation, when it rose,
hit us squarely in the nose. Awful
be-less-human freedom set its root.

We were quick to take no action and
the tree of satisfaction, though
eager to show bloom did not produce.
We bit down on ripe deceit,
brushed aside the harvest wheat;
from our chins ran mingled tears and juice.

“You will not die,” the clever words by which
we suddenly drew swords. Bitter
grief did not regain the loss of life.
As builders we despised the tested
stone that, for our lives, has become the
shelter stone against all strife.