I drove by a lake
cloaked in fog and imagined a man drowned there. Sometimes doubt
cloaks my mind, far heavier than fog, thoughts that You're a miser, a sadist, a tyrant. I like to pick my scabs to the irrational scarring
of my skin, blood under my fingernails, bitten low. Perhaps it's the
control. Sometimes the sight of my own blood makes me woozy, like the
thought of drawing it out with a piercing needle. Maybe that's
control too. I want control and I want freedom and the two are like
oil and water.
There was a heavy
weight on Your shoulders, far heavier than I know. Did it feel like
You were drowning when You hung there so, pushing Yourself up,
scraping Your raw back against the wood, struggling for a gasp of
air, for life, His smile? I will never know it, never bear it. What was it like for you, a
free bird, to be bound? As the blood flowed out and Your heart beat
frantic, did water gather around Your heart in sacs full and ready to
burst? You were thirsty.
On my way home that
day it started to rain, the heavy spring way. It was Good Friday.
This day, Father, You did not spare Your Son. This day blood rained
down from Your forehead and into Your dearest eyes, and there was no
one to wipe them for You. This day life poured out of You. This day,
like the water and blood that ran freely from Your pierced side, the
floodgates of free love ran pure and clean and just, clean wetness
running, rushing, as a river from Your open side. This day You spared
nothing. This day You gave everything. This day You purchased my
freedom; I'm no longer under law but under grace. This day the temple
was torn in two, from top to bottom. This day is for freedom, for
knowledge, for nearness. Keep me in this freedom of knowing; to know
You is eternal life.
