Sunday, April 16, 2017

Holy Week (On Returning to Church)

On a Dark Friday
Image by Jackie via Flickr


Stained glass shards
Cut my heart.
Mary's brown eyes
Draw real blood.
I mourn her
Unattainable ideal
Of womanhood.

Black-robed men
With collars high,
Tell me when
I may speak,
Where I may stand,
What I may do, and
What I may wear
When I'm doing it.

I'd hide in a cave
Like David
But the man after
God's own heart
Would be lying in wait,
Watching me bathe.

"I'm not like other guys,"
Says the still small Voice,
Soft as a robin's breast,
Rich as mother's milk,
Commanding as Orion's knife.

So Holy Week
Brings me back
Through sanctuary doors.
Thursday night
All is purple
Like royalty,
Like the bruise
That drew
My Savior's blood.

Friday sings the blues.
Women wail,
But they stay.
Their grief slays,
But they stay
Anyway.

The hot wax smell
Draws me in,
Draws me down the center aisle
To the table laden
With candles, bread
And grape juice.
Most of me stays
In the back pew.

The rest of me lies
At the table:
Faint,
Defeated
By my own hand,
Needing to be fed
By the body and blood.

We eat and drink.
We are all
Women at the well:
Exposed, relieved,
We sigh
As our lies

Die.

Judith C Evans © 2017 

4 comments:

John Evans said...

I really love the lines "The rest of me lies
At the table:
Faint,
Defeated
By my own hand,
Needing to be fed
By the body and blood.
".
What else as Christians are we able to do, but to surrender?
Your poem (and return to church), a rare gift.
I love this poem so much!

Judith C Evans said...

Thank you so much, John. I think that when we surrender, only then are we able to receive His strength. Thank you for always encouraging me!

Cecilia M Pulliam said...

Beautiful! Each phrase drawing a knowing nod. Just beautiful.

Judith C Evans said...

I'm glad you liked it, Cecilia. It's one of those poems that writes itself over a period of time. :)