Good Friday poem

The deep cold of winter
holds all the cosmos in its thrall.
Yet from beneath the bows of the Tree
there is a gentle sound,
the slow, ethereal putt...putt
of water on snow.

The cold night of winter
from which all creation shivers and shrinks,
numbs every sense,
so even tears cannot be shed
and words dry before forming on the lips.

In this winter darkness,
could the silence be more empty?

Yet a sweet note hangs on the wind,
A silver note that dances between the stars
but so still it could be the Silence itself.

The darkness of this night,
could it be more dense,
Less lacking in light?
It sees even the sun and moon veiled.
Yet beneath the veil of darkness the hint of a flicker
A candle flame just before the wind snuffs it out
dancing on the wick.

Shrivelled beneath chill winds
The Saviour's body turns to corpse.
Blood is drained and seeps into the chapped earth.
Earth parched in endless desert heat
watered by blood and water,
A fifth river that bears souls back to Paradise.

Wounded flesh
that becomes leaves of Paradise,
Medicine
for those lost beneath the weight of unrelenting temptation,
sustenance for those who heave your Body
from the Cross.

Hail holy Cross!
Hail standard of Divine Love!
Hail staff from which the Saviour was smitten
that life giving waters could gush forth!
Hail branch which bore Jacob's heir!
Hail wood
from which the ark that bore the Saviour was hewn!

Kyrie eleison!
Lord, mercy!
Holy and Immortal
Save us!