Dear Friend

Dear Friend

Hark; listen to the wind that is weeping.

Sadly, now she parades her woe at the forthcoming passing,

Of He who will expire today.

But in the silent garden last night,

A tableau of trepidation became visible at first hesitant light.

Then cruel temple guards under Caiaphas’ contrived order,

Came to lay dirty coarse hands and help partake in ritual murder!

Upon the Anointed One, the Precious Saviour!

Will you, dear friend, perhaps take His place this approaching hour?

Then with rough ropes and wounding whips and sheathed sword,

They plundered Gethsemane in search for He who was the Chosen Lord.

Yet did He not heal the man with the deformed hand? Preach upon a far hill?

Feed the flock and breath new life into a precious little girl?

Yet on that predicted day piercing nails punctured His gentle healing hands.

Will you dear friend accept just one nail into your outstretched palm?

Hark; hear how the silent wind now screams

As His visible lacerated body now hangs motionless.

And on that place of the skull,

All is sombre and still.

Yet below His bleeding, bruised feet,

Impure soldiers swore and mocked and bet

For His comforting sacred attire.

Yet hadn’t the prophet predicted this once before?

According to the sacred lore?

But would you dear friend have rebuked those soldiers,

Or silently slipped away into the darkening shadows?

Then upon that splintered cross, He hears

The repentant thief’s pleading, despondent words:


And upon His noble head cruel thorns, still sharpened

Tear into bleeding flesh, upon Him so still and so languid.

Would you dear friend accept just one ferocious thorn

To pierce your own soft pampered skin?

Now at the final tortuous hour of distinction,

Nothing can it appears quench the mobs’ desecration,

Of the agonizing final minutes of Him,

Who knew not, nor had ever tasted sin!

Then bowing His noble head He spoke:


Then through those few soothing words, all who seek His grace will be saved!

Would you dear friend subdue that sickening crowd,

Or stand silently ashamed with poised head bowed?

Soon a stifling darkness descends upon that grieving place.

Now Pilate seeks answers but is that shame upon his face?

But not however upon the delicate features of Claudia his wife,

She discerns that on that cross He offered all, yes even His life!

But are you aware dear friend how much He suffered,

For you and for me; how much He silently endured?

When at last He GAVE UP THE GHOST!

Few stayed behind to stare at such a sombre sight.

And didn’t he from Arimathaea offer the garden tomb?

Where His bruised but not broken body could lay in that sheltered catacomb?

Later sorrowful women would quietly arrive,

And with gentle hands, ointments and spices, for Him would they lovingly prepare.

Would you, dear friend, have brought an individual offering

Or languished in your own chosen shortcoming?

Early in the settling mists of that Easter morning,

A solitary tomb is empty and uninviting.

Then two breathless disciples arrive and stare in wonder,

At the radiance of angels and their princely power!


And wasn’t the love in Magdalene’s eyes the first He viewed

Before He appeared to the chosen multitude?

Finally, dear friend, now as this stanza

Ends proclaim loudly to the beloved:






April 2004

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