This is a poem I wrote 11 years ago that I happened on today and, after re-praying it, I re-wrote it. It’s a reflection on my most cherished theological source: the Cross. Below the poem is the image I prayed with when I wrote it.
I thought it might be appropriate to share on a Lenten Friday, though I fear its language may be too much my own to be very clear. Poetry is, for me, the highest form of theology inasmuch as it admits that theology, before the absolute mystery of God, is best described as “organized stammering.”
In any event, here it is.
“Jesus gave a loud cry and breathed his last.” Mark 15:37
Mountain of Glory
Just above Golgotha’s hallowed stone
rose a garbled sigh that bid angels quiver,
for behold! God bows low beneath God
bearing wearily his Shepherd’s Rod,
birthing all-the-while Eden’s ageless River.
All worship thence, to all times and ages,
rises, wafts up from this barren Mountain
all-soaked in crimson by bleeding Glory
ebbing, flowing out of a Triune Story;
bubbling now in our life-teeming Fountain.
Circle near, ‘round about this heinous crime
ye Seraphim caught up in deathless blaze
to see, veiled, love beyond all measure,
a beaten, bloodied, fly-robed Treasure
that lived-love alone can justly praise.