One breathes upon a thread of life:

A mere delicate string so wound,

As tears what fabric may arrive,

Where double-tongues’ sins abound:

 

A dance with branches of palm,

A pretense of mirth so feigned,

When two swords, in time otherwise calm,

Will even have Damocles weep in rain!

 

One: our Saviour’s thunder,

Accusing, and driving out in frolic

The money-changers’ blunder,

Which, for all mankind shines symbolic

Of the twilight we live under

 

So cries ‘Hosanna!’, and soon, ‘Crucify!’

Then, ‘I knew Him not!’, with a cock’s crow.

So, fickle man sings to amplify

What songs, in secret sin, lived untold

No longer palms, only the Light to vilify,

As snakes devour hearts, stone cold

Not truth do men endure, only we hold

What lanterns reveal, of hypocrisy’s mould

 

And a sword, the second, a Judas luster:

Silver upon silver, a floor now kisses

What folly a man can possibly muster:

The Serpent of Time, laughing in hisses!

 

Would that any man watch and accuse,

But all, within, harbor what needs

A mere temptation’s prick, unrefused,

For what sinister fruit, upon we all feed

 

Such wayward souls, haven’t we gall?

To pretend and proclaim

When, daily, we fall?

Away should we do, with all that’s profane,

But better, we think, to dance a red ball

Blood on our heads, but bright we claim

Are the tethers of souls, before devils’ call!

 

If not but for Him, the wood knew stains,

Then forever would we love only 

tremors and pain, but soon, 

though world’s malice

Takes Heaven by storm, yet 

Heaven sublime, unveils a 

celestial Form!

 

For soon through the dark,

In the bosom of surprise,

Shall hearts sing as the lark,

When will Victory arise!

As into Hades embarks

The Conqueror’s reprise

To quell such dubious marks

Man’s pen would surmise!

 

In shall we go, deep in the night

Through the Temple’s mighty doors,

To sing, as the day takes flight!

With candles, to hands moored

Spirits lofty in might,

‘Till early hours of the morn,

Adore what, sadly few, embrace as Light!

 

Forgiveness, from the Grave

For those, who from folly turn,

And for those who remain,

Shall not patience, Divine, from Grace

intern!

 

For born, at any time, may the Christ

So dwell, when hearts, unburdened,

Turn still seas into mystical swells!

 

Now see, as we ought, what despair would not

 

when it has us forget, for what Love we were 

 

Wrought.

_________________

 

R.V. Smith: “Holy Week”, 04-14-25

 

© 2025 by Ryan Vincent Smith