Meditations on Eschatology

What if the Lord returned right now
where would I be standing?
In the middle of the wide road, in the queue with
the rest of the knowing dying?

If he held me in the palms of his hands,
would I fall through the scars? If he pulled
me close to him, would I be the sword in
his side? If he asked me to wipe his brow,
would my hand be a crown of thorns?
If he said eat my flesh would I leave him
for something more certain?

I heard a man command, go fetch a hammer, and I did.
I heard a man command, spike his hand to the world.

How far did I run with the blood and the hammer, and the
sound of you breathing through the hole in your
hands? I ran to the end of your legs, and set my hammer
down, again and again, angry at God for being

true God from true God, of one being with Father
true light from true light passing through these holes
coagulating around my innocence

How far away is Judas? I need to speak with him
about the thirty pieces of silver, that it is my head that
is on them. Where is Pontius Pilate? I need to ask of him,
whether I can wash my hands with his. Where is Herod?
I must ask why he didn’t know the date of my
birth, and why he let me live through the slaughter of innocents.

And where is Mary, that I may ask her to wash my
clothes of his blood, and if she’d kiss my skinned knees?
Please, where is he, that I may bury him again, that I may live in
a moment’s peace?

Oh, where shall I hide if he is not in his grave? Where shall I hide
if he is as he says, true love of true love?
If I put mud on my eyes, will he blind me in the pool of
Siloam? Or will he hold my arms and keep me from
stoning myself?

Without complaint
I nailed him to the world. He nailed me to himself.
I meant it to end.
He knew it would begin.

©Bill Gnade 2004; 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.

(This poem, posted on Good Friday 2006, is related to this essay at Contratimes.)

The Least Of These

they were next to me
on the ledge
arguing about no small point
95 floors above Manhattan

‘we have got to jump! do
you want to burn? come,
hold my hand!’

‘i, i ... i can’t do it!’

‘yes, you can!’

‘oh, God! oh, God! i can’t! i can’t! Please!’

another explosion,
a rumble
a swaying between here and there

‘He’s with us! we’ve got no choice!’

‘no, no, ok. ok. i can do it. ok, ok.'

'on three!'

'i can do it. oh, God! oh, God!’

‘good! ready? take my hand! look at me!
on three!
one! two! three!’

‘no, wait! no! God!'

but there is no waiting. one hand
leads another
to the very center of the
earth; the touch of comfort
in a moment of grief.
who but I was witness
to this moment?

what is known of
the struggle here above the world
that none shall witness,
though cameras probe
through fire and brimstone
as I--
with the cries of so many dust-choked voices
coming from everywhere--
reach for another reluctant hand?

know
that I shall indeed
sign a sworn statement,
in blood if I must
that I am witness
to all unknown horrors

and that I
was with them
in the speedy descent

even the sparrow
falls
with me

while cameras roll
straining to see
what happens
when

©Bill Gnade 2001/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.

[this simple poem is related to an essay at Contratimes]