Holy Week, a poem

Holy Week
Palm Sunday joyful hosannas
Morph into hate-filled shouts
 “Crucify him, crucify him”
The powerful are threatened;
Jesus has seen behind their facades,
 Seen their superficial piety
With evil at the core.
A friend loses heart
Makes a deal
To betray the one he loved
And who loved him.
Tension, like the static crackling
Before a terrible storm.

A Passover Meal.
They jostle for the places of honor,
They still don’t get it, or get Him.
Peter had his back, John his heart,
And Judas his betrayal bag of coins.
Bread broken and shared
Blood red wine drunk to the dregs,
 Re-presenting Good Friday’s holocaust

Feet are washed, a gesture beyond words
Burned into the disciples’ souls.
We are to be each other’s servants
People of the bowl and towel
Foot washers all.

The disobedience of Eden’s Garden
 Becomes in Gethsemane’s garden,
An agonizing yes, “Thy will be done.”
Anas, Caiaphas, Pilate and Herod
Each using Jesus for his own vile purpose;
Unknowingly doing God’s holy purpose.

Barabbas the first one saved
 By the blood of the innocent Jesus.
The good thief “steals” paradise,
His weapon a pain-wracked prayer,
 “Jesus, remember me.”
The men cower in fear,
  But the women fearless
Weeping women, a caring woman Veronica
The Marys at the foot of the Cross
Magdalene and the Mother
Witnesses and midwives of the new life
Born in pain
“Into your Hands I commend my spirit.”
His body broken, his blood poured out
In a final gift of love.
He is taken down, and given to his mother
Simeon’s long ago words, echo within
“Your own soul a sword shall pierce.”
Pieta’ pain, wrenching, almost unbearable,
 Pain too common in our violent world
A mother tearfully caressing her dead child
“I don’t understand, God!”
“Thy will be done.”