Perhaps it\u2019s April.
\nThe time of year.
\nA coincidence of nature and holiness,
\nbut Good Friday
\nseems always gray, dour.
\nAs if the hands of God
\nwere tired of being burned
\nby the sun.
\nSad, at the souls of his children
\nin despair.
\nCrimes committed in the name
\nof crime.
\nThis drama, in a universe
\nof numberless stars,
\nhaving no more substance
\nthan a mote of dust
\nin the gargantuan of God.<\/p>\n
I believe God was there
\nwhen the murder was committed.
\nGod was there
\nwatching and weeping.
\nGod was there,
\nsuffering,
\nas if his ultimate strength
\nand power, was nothing.
\nThe gift born from his hands
\nwas dying.
\nAlmost destroyed.
\nBleeding and anguished
\nby the mockery of a crown.<\/p>\n
Why call it Good Friday?
\nWhy pretend that the mountains
\ndid not roar with silent rage.
\nWhy the day lasted into night
\nmarked in sorrow.
\nApril.
\nA beautiful month to be born.
\nSpring, a wonderful time to live.
\nThe day after tomorrow,
\nrain cleaning the earth,
\nand God,
\nblessing his children,
\nand showing us the miracle of love
\nGod leaves in our hearts
\non Easter<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Perhaps it\u2019s April. The time of year. A coincidence of nature and holiness, but Good Friday seems always gray, dour. As if the hands of…<\/p>\n