Tonight

Tonight, I am not a theologian.
Nor an intellectual, nor a literatteur, nor a poet, a writer,
a commentator, a sophist.
When I see Him, passing by,
the Lamb,
I have nothing, nothing to say,
but weep softly, in the darkness,
in the rain and cold,
for this Friday and all Fridays,
where my soul and captive body have lain,
the arctic dark and redemptorist reach,
the severity where the Lamb was slain.

Art is dead tonight.
Thought has died.
My head aches,
whilst Jesus, my Personal Lord and Saviour,
weeps crucified.

Comments

[ochlophobist]

Thank you. Right and beautiful.