Good Friday

When shouts of praise are drowned out 

by voices of hate

becoming the only thing we can hear.

Leaving the "Hosanna" trapped within,

a half-finished thought, 

lacking the courage to become a voice.

Who was this man?

Beaten, mocked, spit on.

How did such love become

the object of consuming hate?

Fed by our need for being right?

Our misguided notion of religion?

Our incomplete understanding of God?

When the light of the world

was blown out,

with a collective breath,

leaving a curl of smoke in the darkness,

it must have felt

like the end. 

And still, the same darkness

lingers in our souls, 

but only if we let it.

Hate sometimes speaks the loudest,

but only if we listen to it.

Ask yourself, in the silence

and the darkness,

is it “Hosanna" I am shouting?

Ask yourself,

have I learned the giving

and receiving of forgiveness?

Good Friday.

A whispering of the hope

to come.