I Am Said I (Huruma)

She stayed by the tomb weeping faithful to the emptiness she found there longing for her absent Lord While we are not inclined to stay with weeping or emptiness We run away ahead instead But it is in her weeping and her waiting that Mary met Jesus becoming the first apostle of Resurrection

Fresh Frozen Frost Freezing Feet For everyone God’s Son’s Godless  Distress  Arrested Divinity Dripping Drops of Blood Betrayed And kissed Dismissed Despicably

No longer Will I Bear it On my own I will no longer Wear it all alone I will let you Take a thorn From my crown The crown upon My head The thorn Of my mistake The crown Of my disgrace And shame The veil that covers My face No longer need I Hide from You For ours the crown And ours the thorn One the blood We share We die one death We live one life And one the heart That carries Every other

I emerge from under Ground zero A perfect day in December An Arab Sells water To thirsty tourists Hawkers always find a shrine To eke out their own Survival I stab unconvincingly At prayers that don’t Seem to fit the pilgrimage To which I am drawn The De Profundis Comes close to the truth Out of the depths I cry Cry being the more Authentic and muted now In contrast to the tumult Tumbling in this place On that day As on the day Of President Kennedy’s Assassination We know exactly Where we were When news broke And we circle now in silence Watching for whatever Listening to the clang Of steel A constant Angelus Promise Of what will be The cemetery building site Struggles slowly upwards While the pain of thousands Pulls and holds it back The dead have slept And go on sleeping Survivors scream In nightmares not deserved An interrupted life And all the while The traffic drives And joggers run But all of life is marked And always turns its head In this direction

In an old poky terraced house I lay myself down on no-body's bed Quietly Apprehensive One ear open for the big black phone that will clang In deepest desolate dark Heart pounding To the voice That oozes forth from hell at the other end I hate phones ringing I hate the click of another Hanging up Too soon Never ever knowing if I prevented or assisted Suicide

He leaned upon The ancient Olive tree Its thousand years Of waiting at an end The Hour had come For Him to fall prostrated In a pool of perspired blood The Father’s flood of silence This alone the witness The Olive tree and me. A couple of thousand Years again I prayed Beneath the shade Of that same tree And there I learned That it’s not for us To know the joy of Rising yet Not even death’s respite It’s ours to hold The cup that does not pass The chalice that holds us In His sacrifice Until the Hour has come For its consumption