"In exchange for the Son of Man" | Spy Wednesday

Holy Week Wednesday For this Holy Week, I will share a poem a day. I’ll be writing drafts basically every day so don’t judge me too harshly if the poems are average. Palm Sunday’s poem can be found here, Holy Monday is here, and Holy Tuesday is here; note: there are no for sure events for Spy Wednesday, so I simply wrote a poem about what tradition says happened before Easter.

*****

I will take a bag of coins back home, and they will help me sleep as they whisper, "You were right."

And I will curl in the night; my muscles will relax because this bag of coins will reveal the Messiah of my dreams.

Ex nihilo—I have called forth the God of my dreams who will save me from the Roman bondage, the Roman vices.

I will clutch this money bag with the death grip of the man who overthinks his conscience into silence and tunes out the explicit orders of the Man who said, "Give to Caeser what is Caesar's."

I will dream dreams of sitting at the right hand while my left hand's fingers play with the coins.

Silver: dazzling and reflective.

I will kiss the Man who washed my feet; I will kiss Him with a knowing wink—pleased with myself because I broke into the secret.

I am in on the divine secret.

I am in.

I will take whatever is offered because the hairs on my heart are still on edge from the razor-blade words He spoke to me at the party with the whore who cried—and how did He know? How did He know?

Well, I will show Him. I will show Him in the night that I know better than to exchange my ego for a bowl of water.

He may have fooled the others, but with this bag I will exchange this son of man for the glory that we deserve; the victory we were told we would have.

"Supper time betrayal" | Holy Tuesday

Holy-Week-Tuesday For this Holy Week, I will share a poem a day. I’ll be writing drafts basically every day so don’t judge me too harshly if the poems are average. Palm Sunday’s poem can be found here, and Holy Monday is here; note: there are no for sure events for Holy Tuesday, so I simply wrote a poem about what tradition says happened before Easter.

*****

At the meal, they all laid down on one elbow (probably) and formed a circle. John rested on the bosom of Jesus, his master.

They ate, they drank, and they laughed one more passover with their beloved Rabbi.

*****

I was betrayed once.

It cut

my eyeballs out of my brain;

I panicked because I lost the right arm I trusted.

*****

And I wonder where the women sat while the Messiah said His hands and feet would sell him over;

And I wonder what kind of giant heart speaks about love one another like I love you, knowing there would be betrayal.

*****

I felt alone.

What's worse than being forsaken?

"Like a mother, He cried" | Holy Monday

Holy-Week-Monday For this Holy Week, I will share a poem a day. I’ll be writing drafts basically every day so don’t judge me too harshly if the poems are average. Palm Sunday's poem can be found here; note: there are no for sure events for Holy Monday, so I simply wrote a poem about something that probably happened before Easter.

*****

You went up the hill.                                                                                                                                                      You went past the gates.                                                                                                                                                You stood afraid because the city would fall.

Oh Jerusalem, Jerusalem,

You went past the tree.                                                                                                                                                    You left the nation’s icon.                                                                                                                                             You cursed the figs because the tree bore no fruit.

How I longed to gather you.

You went past the chiefs.                                                                                                                                              You were cast to the ground.                                                                                                                                       You spoke to Greeks because it was the hour of the Son of Man.

And now your city is left,

Your tears were shed.                                                                                                                                                    You spoke like mother.                                                                                                                                                    You said woe, woe, because their hearts closed off.

Not one stone will be left.

"They laid down their robes" | Palm Sunday

cover For this Holy Week, I will share a poem a day. I'll be writing drafts basically every day so don't judge me too harshly if the poems are average.

*****

Everybody was buying and selling.

Everybody was laying and yelling.

They cut down branches to place below the donkey's hooves; a little smelly animal shuffling to the rhythms of praise. For your King has come on an ass, says the King James Version.

Royalty and donkeys do not mix in the West, but that was the way of Near Eastern Kings. Now, for hundreds of years pockets of people gather to talk about the Jewish prophecies where it was said,

"On a colt, He comes."

Everybody was laying and yelling.

Everybody was buying and selling.

They set up tents and shops in the temple yards for everyone to buy oxen, rams, doves, barley, and everything else Leviticus said should be purchased. I've been to the Middle East bartering markets:

they are loud.

For your King has come, your King has come with rage in His eyes, says the Desire of Ages.

Royalty and judgment mix well in the West, but this whip brought in all the Eastern low lives. Now, for hundreds of years, East and West gathers together to talk about the accuracy of the Jews, and the story the story of the man for whom

they laid down their robes.