The penultimate last word

“It is finished.”

Hurry, Jesus. Hurry to the appointment
you have made to duel death. Hasten
the darkening sky, that  a false dawn may break
early; that you may fell the great destroyer.
The soldiers come with mallets and spear,
we hear them marching, breath
charging up the hill. Hurry, Jesus.
Finish it.

This entry was posted in Holy Days, poetry, prayer and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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