The Goodness of Friday

Today is Good Friday, the day when Jesus was sacrificed on the cross. I cannot write poetry on this day without being reminded first of George Herbert's "The Sacrifice," and second of W.H. Auden's "Horae Canonicae." Both are far, far deeper than anything I could hope to say. Nonetheless, I wrote, trying to struggle with the wave of mundane expressions I see on this day. How easily we forget how painful and bloody goodness is, and refashion the word into a Hallmark sentiment.

How banal our words seem when given voice!

If this day be Good, it is so as death

is good, a horrifying mystery

that I blench to gaze on, lacking stomach

to smile and sing loud, loud Hosannas. Let

these tears’ silent path speak on my behalf,

my voice still hoarse from frantic chorused cries -

Crucify Him! I have no lord but him

who lets me be! words from my tongue so strange

I know they must be my deepest, truest

thought, which illumined the depth of darkness

hidden within. Those words, words of color,

nuance (shades of avarice, tint of lust,

gentle pallet of envy and malice,

covered over with the sheen of double

lacquered pride) pronounced that judgment

for myself, and I felt how surely all

men fear to die. In that blackest daylight

hour, there I sit. So go, go and sing

It was your sin that held him there, you who

dare not to glance askew at the burden

not yet released, fearing how deep and true-

ly good that Goodness is, and sing loudly

of your crucifiction. 

Even after knowing how torturous

that goodness will be, if spread on my life,

I pray, God, for that goodness to be giv'n

even to wretched me.