Bleak hill- Look, See, Pray

Only a hill. What more can be said?

But this bleak hill could tell a story…
Uncounted years of sunshine and rain,
stone cracking, wind blowing,
history made and forgotten, footprints lost,
memories murmured by melancholic men
thinking of one hill,
three crosses,
and one Saviour.

God painted a canvas of mercy weaved into pain.
Red blood, black flies, darkest sky
and a crown with sharpest spikes
on the head of the gentlest of Men,
on the Hill they called the Place of the Skull.
How apt indeed, place for solving
inconvenient truth and inconvenient men!

Three victims there, and two deserved to die-
the Other, here for a reason greater
than the spite of conspiracies, jealousies,
and fear.

We call it Good Friday, this saddest of days,
when Death bit the bullet
and swallowed itself.
Hate did its worst- He breathed his last,
the cry resounding from heaven to hell
as Jesus tore open a doorway to Life.

The longest Friday.
A few heroes, a broken hearted mother,
rough soldiers, cruelly efficient,
with onlookers weeping or carping-
then gentle, sorrowful hands
a cool palace of bedrock
for the King of all Kings.

All hope seems suspended.
The planet on pause-
so much in the balance,
who weighted the scales?
Poets and prophets speak pictures
and the critics complain,
veiled hints and becomings
unclear to their minds.

One hill,
three crosses,
and one Saviour.

And Sunday is coming.