Again

It was Easter again, for the

hundred-eighty-leventh time.

Cut flowers were hung

on the cross with care,

by old and young alike,

creating a rainbow of color

to cover the trio of deep

crimson stains long-dried.

The trumpeter trumped

to the choir's anthem,

hitting notes gorgeous enough

to raise the dead all by themselves.

As the congregation waits

with bated ears for the familiar tale,

holding their breath

for the punch line to come,

"Wait for it! Wait for it!"

the preacher stops short,

leaving us hanging at Mark 16:8;

vulnerable as the three women,

naked as the crucified,

headed to church on Easter

with nothing more than flimsy dreams;

almost citizen-arrested

and returned home

of our own volition

when the stone's shadow 
crosses the road in front of us.

No real explanation

for why we continue;

nothing more than one foot

in front of the other,

sinking into our own death march.

As the sermon unfolds,

a single wasp wafts in,

circling the flower-laden cross

like a grim reaper on the prowl.

Flitting from one petal to another,

occasionally zipping up

to the lilies on the chancel,

the winged dementor's uneasiness

grows as we are pulled

into the story, broken dream

by broken hearts,

hoped toward the empty tomb

by a love willing to stop at nothing,

cried toward resurrection

by grace that will not be denied.

Who knew that Easter’s truth

lay so close, so intertwined,

with the daily struggle

of our own ordinary lives?

Only Christ, and Christ died for us,

Christ was raised for us,

Christ prays for us.

Because you live, O Christ,

the rainbow of Your peace

will span creation,

the colors of Your love

will draw all humankind to adoration.

("Because You Live, O Christ" 
by Shirley Erena Murray, PH 105)

© 2015 Todd Jenkins