Afterword (a draft)
It feels more like Good Friday than Advent
More tenebrae less bells and songs
How can we sing of joy in the midst of hate?
Put your harps away, find the drums
Of course life is always thus someone
Somewhere is dying and someone else
Is grieving. One year, our rebirth only came with
Red Wings of a bird in a green fir tree.
Those left behind keep saying year after year
Remember our parades our feasts our holy days?
While others know the lynching tree could return,
The night could take back the day, rule of fear over law.
It could be worse. Is God helpless to help, bound
By some mysterious force that offers only myrrh?
Turn, see His small face, feel tiny fingers, hear the fragile beat.
Turn, He is nailed up there, bleeding for us.