Good Friday

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 willingly pinned,

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.

Good Friday Kathy Coffey