Good Friday

Deprived of bandages, and bleeding, worn
from endless suffering, your silence now
breaks through my tears. In shock, I wonder how
all that I thought would save us has been torn
from my still needful hands. Is this the end?
You, hanging from the tree no longer see –
don’t hear the jeers. Most friends have thought to flee
in fear, and few remained here to attend
to what is left: a broken body, bruised
and void of life. I stretch my arms out, try
to reach you, but you are too far away.
You’ve left me here, alone, and I, who used
to follow you as truth now wish to die
and question how I’ll survive every day.

© Patricia Emerson Mitchell