i was not weeping at the cross,
unlike the Mother of our Lord and
the women of Jerusalem.
They believed in Someone,
believed that Something would come to pass.
And i, pushing past the people,
grabbed the body, slippery in blood
and spittle from the scornful
unbelievers gathered round,
gnarled with a thousand whip lashes,
"Where were You, God,
Where were You when it mattered most?"
and ended with a cry
primitive, primeval, an ache beyond words,
so did the Christ cry out with me.