An Agnostic Good Friday

by John E Marks

“That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy cross,
To number drop by drop Thy blood’s slow loss,
And yet not weep?” Christina Rossetti

Sackcloth on our backs

Ashes in our mouths

Wailing loudly and bitterly

Morning maniac music

Awakens me to the truth

Those who once brought hope

Now mired in a maggoty apathy

And that, over the mountains,

Black clouds scud with a perverted vivacity

Killing as they go — look, there’s blood on the floor

Refugees waiting

Knocking at your door.

Seeking sanctuary.

Some say

Christendom in the west has fallen

Collapsed from within,

Deep, deep in the luxuries of a world without sin.

Oh! I’m glad I never fell in love with you

Jesus.

Glad that I try to speak

Of these endless, numbered days

But I cannot begin to say.

Children crucified, mass graves,

Images that will never

Fade

No crystal ball

Needed

No prescience

Heeded

Give me your hand

Let us pray,

With ashes in our mouths,

For this new day

As iron enters the soul,

In a world

Suddenly grown old.