PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

That cross is empty.  Weeping mourners carried

Jesus across Rome's dirt road to be buried

in Joseph's unused tomb.   I stayed behind

trying to reconcile, or be resigned

to, this unspeakable experience,

nine hours or more of blood-curdling suspense.

Thoughts' wild trajectories storm through my mind.

He walked and talked among us all these years.

He made our burdens lighter, wiped our tears

away, and spoke calm peace to our old fears.

Look at the cross:  its sign bears Jesus' name.

Its rugged wood is streaked with His blood's stain.

And we stand idly by, to our great shame.

What future can we hope, now, to obtain?---

bereft, now, of the comfort of His presence.

Our lives will be like old men's convalescence:

trembling and weak, until death stakes its claim.

Starward-Led