Holy Saturday

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Jesus and I are really similar

    because I too 


cried when I prayed on Good Friday

    I cry every time I try to pray.


 cry when I even think of prayer, try to reach out to a hand I have always found extended.

    When I tried to wish a friend happy easter. All I found were tears. 


can’t find rest here; Good Friday doesn’t feel right. Easter feels worse. Saturday is all I’ve got.

      How can I celebrate death’s destruction when I’m still in the grave?


can’t find faith. Everything I’ve ever hoped or believed for is dead all around me. 

     Gospels? I can’t escape lamentations. 


am here with Jeremiah. We scream, and scream, and no one listens.

    My bones are on fire but I would rather burn than speak. 


am hunted in my dreams. I wake over and over, my heart racing, scream on my lips.

   When I close my eyes, I’m back in Saturday. Back in hell. Back in the grave. 


don’t want to die.  

  I so desperately don’t want to die. 

But death is following me. I’m buried, six feet under.


 wake up on good friday and my hands and feet feel as if they’re being crushed,

  Stabbed. My side catches when I try to take a breath. I feel no closer to you. 


feel as if my heart might bleed from every pore if I stop and meet you here. 

    The dirt and mud fill my mouth as I try to pray. You were in the tomb for just three days. I’ve been in this grave for years. 

  

There is no easter morning here. Only Friday night. Only Saturday. 

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