Reflections on Good Friday

In my teenage years,

I wore a wooden cross

Across my heart,

Remembering,

Committing all.

The more my years,

My life's increasingly

A vain and cheap invention,

Yet I grip it tighter.

My sincere intention,

Traveling the bloody steps

The man of sorrows

Pushed into the brutal dirt

Before,

Is hung with doubt

And heavy stubborn fingers

Curled so stiff about 

Another empty twenty, 

Thirty years of breathing

Lacking purpose, promise.

Do I grasp and cling

From mere inertia, 

Common groove of habit,

A dependent thoughtlessness?

Do I adore my sorry self

This much?

Thinking of my splintered pendant,

I hear the whisper,

"Follow me,"

And fear.

- 4/3/25