Mourning, Holy Saturday
Past all tears now,
Mary sits very still
like a rabbit
frozen
in underbrush of cover,
waiting for time, like danger, to pass
over and around and through her
in the hope
that by marking its flow,
she can bathe in its mourning
until all will somehow be
deliberate motion again.
Perhaps then,
refreshed and renewed
through grief’s undying vigil,
the promise that was hers
will rise reborn someday,
and she will revel once more
in Love’s eternal entangled forest
that holds both her and time secure.
But today,
in these dark woods
where praying wolves howl,
hope lies
like a faraway angelic dream
of Messianic ideals
among shattered limbs
cut down by twisted high winds.
And soaking in time’s soothing stream
that babbles the obdurate eternity of love,
Mary sits still,
very, very still.
©2007, Tess Lockhart. All rights reserved.
Mary sits very still
like a rabbit
frozen
in underbrush of cover,
waiting for time, like danger, to pass
over and around and through her
in the hope
that by marking its flow,
she can bathe in its mourning
until all will somehow be
deliberate motion again.
Perhaps then,
refreshed and renewed
through grief’s undying vigil,
the promise that was hers
will rise reborn someday,
and she will revel once more
in Love’s eternal entangled forest
that holds both her and time secure.
But today,
in these dark woods
where praying wolves howl,
hope lies
like a faraway angelic dream
of Messianic ideals
among shattered limbs
cut down by twisted high winds.
And soaking in time’s soothing stream
that babbles the obdurate eternity of love,
Mary sits still,
very, very still.
©2007, Tess Lockhart. All rights reserved.
