The Priest and the King
The priest stood tall, he knew his place,
a leader among men,
called by God, and counted on
to judge time and again.
“You, they say, claim you are God
the Christ, so is this true?”
“So you say,” he softly answered,
“But what is that to you?”
The priests cried out and rent their clothes,
declaring blasphemy!
“No more to say, you heard him too!
So here is my decree:
“This feeble cad, who makes no sound,
hurts my holy eyes.
Send him south to Roman courts
we’ll see his swift demise!”
They led Him south to seek His doom,
wanting them to slay
this unaccepted, scandalous man,
though Hell should bar the way.
He stood before the Roman seat,
and listened to the claims.
Interrogated long, yet still,
they found no fault to blame.
“My feeble friend, who defends not,
I’m powerful, you know.
A word of truth about yourself
would be quite apropos!”
And with a voice like angels’ wings,
He spoke as gentle as doves:
“You’d have no power over me
except from Him above.”
How Caiaphas did spy the hand
which steered him to the tree.
The long, lank arm, a judge’s finger
pointed to Calvary.
The man trudged south while spit and blood
ran down his laden back,
then lifted high and fastened firm
until the sky turned black.
The well-schooled priest, with quivering limbs,
pointed toward the clouds
so dark, so low, reflecting all
the murmurs of the crowds.
They took the traitor down that day
and laid Him in a cave.
But never did the priest find out
who took Him from the grave.
The Holy of Holies
Fateful priest, who sought our God,
drew the lot that year
to stand before the Holy One
where none dare even peer.
He washed his face, he oiled his head,
marched with hands held high,
to take his place among the great,
the most privileged rabbi.
“That ugly shroud, it must be fixed,”
he thought as he drew near.
“The severed curtain, torn apart
it happened late last year.”
“How was it rent? Can it be known?
The rumors have been spread.
But if done with human hands,
why would the priests have fled?”
In holy awe or pious pride,
he ducked inside the space,
where holiness apportioned him
would bless the Jewish race.
No majestic messenger was found
no heat upon the start.
And pietistic fortitude
gave way to pounding heart.
“It’s dark in here. Where are You, Lord?
I wish to see Your face…
I see a beam. It’s taking shape,
it seems to fill this place.
A hand I see, it’s pointing south,
out past this tattered shroud…
I plead with You, don’t make me see
what lies atop that trail!”
The Voice.
“I am not bound within these walls!
I told you so before!
Did you not hear the temple cry
when judgment split its core?”
“I am the God of all the earth,
the Lord above the stars!
I bore the burden of every man –
just look upon these scars.”
“Who are You, Lord? I fail to glean
the lesson that You bring.
I need more time to sort things out.
I know You not, my King.”
“Oh, but you shall bow before night’s end
to whom you gave the Lamb…
For I knew you before your time
before you were… I AM!”
The Reckoning
My jellied legs sink to the ground,
as crystal-clear I see
the eyes of Jesus, looking south,
then turning upon me.
As a finger, long and strong, leads me to recall
I’d seen this man, But did not know, God’s true face at all.
Leave a Reply