C’mon. Don’t do it again, Lord. Please.
This whole passiony affair, this week-long
dioramatic train wreck labeled holy (but is it?).
We’re shell-shocked right now, knee-deep in
death and loss and so much sad. Adding yours
to the evening news, even though we know
the Paul Harvey…please, can we just skip it?
I know, I know. I’m not the boss of you.
You’re gonna do what you’re gonna do—
wrap your legs ‘round that velvet eeyore and
strap your hands ‘cross love’s engine and…
‘cause Jesus you were born to die which
sounds so spiritual, so holy (but is it really?).
The Son of Man must suffer. Okay, you win.
I still believe. But I’m gonna bring up the rear
this year. No palms for me. And I may punch
the first chirpy that says “But Sunday’s comin!”
That line sells well on decorative pillows hawked
on Etsy pages, but it offers no balm in the valley.
I’ll be praying for you this week, Lord. It’s terrible.
But—the Magnificent Defeat? Fine, ride on then.