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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Good Friday

Perhaps it’s April.
The time of year.
A coincidence of nature and holiness,
but Good Friday
seems always gray, dour.
As if the hands of God
were tired of being burned
by the sun.
Sad, at the souls of his children
in despair.
Crimes committed in the name
of crime.
This drama, in a universe
of numberless stars,
having no more substance
than a mote of dust
in the gargantuan of God.

I believe God was there
when the murder was committed.
God was there
watching and weeping.
God was there,
suffering,
as if his ultimate strength
and power, was nothing.
The gift born from his hands
was dying.
Almost destroyed.
Bleeding and anguished
by the mockery of a crown.

Why call it Good Friday?
Why pretend that the mountains
did not roar with silent rage.
Why the day lasted into night
marked in sorrow.
April.
A beautiful month to be born.
Spring, a wonderful time to live.
The day after tomorrow,
rain cleaning the earth,
and God,
blessing his children,
and showing us the miracle of love
God leaves in our hearts
on Easter

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