Monday, April 06, 2020

A lament for Holy Week 2020

We hang up our harps on garden bushes;
held at home,
how can we sing our familiar songs?

Strange to think this place, so well known,
these four walls,
become our exile; we are strangers here.

I remember how we came, hosanna shouts,
palm crosses,
to celebrate your Triumph; praise your lowly Majesty.
And now from dining rooms
we squint into our screens
and try to hear an echo of the past.

You came to your own, and yet were not at home;
your Father's house
a den, and others led you from the place;

the place where you had made your name to dwell.
Weight of cross
and pain of scourge, and all the time a stranger.

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