7. Tryptich


Here the soil is barren
Here nothing grows
But crosses
They know not what they do
You, your forgiveness
Falls as dew

Nailed upon a wooden frame
Twisted yet unbroken
Open mouthed a silent choir
Understood, unspoken
Never was there heard a sound
Until the heavens opened

Now the tide is turning
To other worldly yearning
Though the sun’s eclipse seems final
Surely he will rise again