to Great David‘s old imperial throne,
whose touch has cured an army of the lame
but crawled our cobbled streets to die alone?
Is this the “Coming One” we thought would reign,
his head with glory’s golden laurels crowned?
Is this the one who breaks the Roman chain,
whose body lies like spit upon the ground?
It’s rumored he turned water into wine
but no friend came to quench his final thirst.
If he were “The One” could he deny us this sign,
“Come down from that cross; prove you are not cursed”?
We would have made him King, the prince of the Jews.
But he refused. How could he dare refuse?
This is a sonnet I wrote for the Saturday after Good Friday, the day even Jesus’ closest followers became the darkest skeptics, before any ear had heard of Easter.
Other Bible stories from Moss Kingdom:
Old Testament: Some He Bruises, Some He Bleeds: A Sestina on the Covenants, Noah Wakes from a Recurring Nightmare, Abram the Pagan, For the Sake of the Few, The Deception of Jacob, The Unspeakable Name, A Sound of War in the Camp, A Lament for Michal, The Rape of Tamar and the Half-life of Joy, Numbered Numbered Weighed Divided: a Rubaiyat concerning Belshazzar’s doom, Jonah, The Years the Locusts have Consumed