9-22 That Friday

That Friday

 

I walked in Old Salem

where centuries ago Moravians

hewed points on timber walls,

 

strolled among Dogwoods and lavender Wisteria,

Creek mist dampening spectacles.

Honeysuckle filling every green passage,

Cardinals beaded like blood drops against lime leaves

 

and I grope for words I never knew

and fumbling to grasp grief’s treachery

 

—A blur of splinters, thorns, and iron spikes—

 

and I wonder, stepping in Moravian footprints,

 

whether Your greatest weight

 

was suffering or mercy?

 

 

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