By Jonathan Hunter-Kilmer
upward
looking at Your feet
upraised by the paraclete
with Your falling blood I rise
drawn by You sweet suffering eyes
skyward bent
and groundward lean
pulse creating an extreme
furor suckles
at Your breast
hair sucks
blood-encrusted mess
from You eyes and face and skin
wondering where they have been
they the friends who left You there
once arrested backwards stare
following as Peter did
then his faith and life he hid
inside Pilate's open gate
hatred to emaciate
resurrected gave him chance
to get back into Your dance
but as You bled
hanging
spent
downward turning eyes
of Lent
I would succor if I could
seek for You
but praise You would
just the thought that I would spare
live as sinless as I care
by Your grace
to take You down
and remove the thorny crown
and replace it with my love
reminiscent always of
what Veronica took late
from Your face
with cloth and pate
cleaned of grime
and saturate
You with mercy
let Your fate
take You up that dreaded hill
so You mission would fulfill
wood stacked up to make a pyre
now my soul burns in that fire
burning, churning with desire
You alone can satisfy
You the born and first to die
Lover make my bed complete
wrap my soul in Heaven's pleat
skirting bedside or Your chair
starlight bursting from Your hair
sacrifice is incomplete
until You are in Your seat
taking newly life's command
Father's Son at His right hand
Bridegrom for You bride to be
trembling in Your ecstasy
