When I have enough sense to focus and fix upon our triune God, this occurs:
Good Friday is over, its requiem.
Your sacred soul, piercéd by hate—
We celebrate each Passover.
This death and darkness? You obliterate!
Saturday: Bradford Pears and Dogwoods bloom;
Serenades of songbirds resonate.
The hour of nails, of bloody gloom
Is dead. Your sacred heart: