Good Friday

Poor Jesus.
He’s dead.
 
 
We brood, as if to endure the commemoration of it.
Can’t wait till Resurrection Sunday morning.
 
 
Death by death is destroyed
by remaining dead.
 
 
It can take life but once and no more.
 
 
Death is negated by itself,
and death is quiet because it’s dead.
 
 
There was a serenity in the quietness of his tomb that night.
 
 
The writhing approach of death arrived
and with it came quiet.
And it’s still quiet in there,
because what’s dead is dead,
including my right to myself.
 
 
The death I died with Jesus is forever
to whatever it was he died;
And the life he lives in me is forever
to whom he lives.
 
 
That me is unanimated, and can remain so.
His new life has a body to live in,
A dead one, animated only by what raised his.
 

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