A Heartfelt Description of a Prayer

The balding minister lit candles, waiting
To feel the blessed peace of Christ, descending
On a fragile and flawed saint, hoping
For the light to overcome the darkness.

Mary the Mother of Jesus: A Good Friday Sonnet

Oh my son. Oh my son. Oh my son. Oh my beautiful baby boy....

My heart is breaking for you; I'm dying inside; I can't even speak.

I want to die instead of you. But you are so strong; and I am weak.

You are hanging there with nails in your hands. You are in so much pain.

And I can't help but to think of the night you were born... and of the rain
That was falling cool and hard. And of how Joseph was annoyed,

“Surely somebody has some place for a pregnant woman to have her child!”

There was plenty of pain that night. But now it is you, not me, travailing -

Birthing God's promised redemption. It's been a treasure never failing

For me since the angel spoke. But I know that first you must be reviled

...and die. The light has gone out of the sky. This darkness is heavy like lead.

Soon, though you deserve only the very best from us all, you'll be dead.

Oh my son. Oh my son. Oh my son. Oh my beautiful baby boy....

I am dying with you, in front of you. Dear God, my beautiful boy.

Peter: A Good Friday Sonnet

Oh man, why is my mouth so stupidly big?

I failed him. I'm no better than a pig.

To crawl down deep in a hole would be bliss.

But I know that I shouldn't run away.

Didn't I tell myself, “I have to stay”?

But crucifixion? That I'd rather miss.

Oh God, you know how bad I want to flee

Oh God, why did you even fashion me

In my mother's womb? Give me a cold, dark tomb.

I just want to run so far. Don't make me see

Him.... dead. Send me to Ninevah. There's room!

Yeah, send me anywhere at all. Make me pay.

The sin I've committed is heavy like stone.

The best I can do is to sit here and groan.

Pilate: A Good Friday Sonnet

These pompous Jew beggars coming to me before sunrise

As if I was some kind of hit man for hire. Well, surprise!

This Roman isn't too interested in playing that game.

They walk in, filthy and reeking of their food, with proud eyes.

Restraining themselves out of fear, but spitting that one name...

“Jesus: You don't get him dead? You'll be the one who gets blamed.”

Can I ignore them? No, damn it. There's no way to tell

What they might do. They might rebel. But I'd make their lives hell.

Well, here's the thing: I'll see the man and I'll take his measure.

“Bring him unto me, this Jesus. It will be my pleasure.”

I'll ask the questions. I'll make this Jew see the light.

I am Pilate and should be feared,... everyone knows that, right?

“Hello there brave Galilean. What brings you here today?

What, cat got your tongue? Haven't you some begging words to say?

Well?....”

Le Printemps

Chill breeze and warm sun,

Greening, freezing, and hoping,

Spring is in the air.