Good FridayBy Kathy Coffey
It pulls at some deep corner
this scene of mother
holding battered child,
cradling a son become a worm.
The hair she had combed,
blood-matted the silken skin, gashed.
"What have you done to him?" turned to
"At least you can do no more."
Blackened nails, limp arms
energy drained from one who feared he could not do enough
-all lost to the weariness of the long dying.
In crushed silence, we enter
the empty night of those
who murdered God, vowing we will
not add another splinter to that cross.