This poem was written for the Good Friday service at Orcas Island Community Church this year.
Isaac’s on the altar, bound and terrified.
Your only son, and he born to carry on your line
your little one, who has his mother Sarah’s eyes.
Abraham – take the knife and lift it high.
Your husband Jacob loves your sister Rachel still
(your beauty holds no candle to her lovely eye)
and he your husband much against his will;
Leah, take your cup and drink it dry.
Newly freed from Egypt, Israel longed for other chains
you danced for Aaron’s golden calf in revelry and lust.
Drink up, my chosen people: your jewels and your shame.
Your treasure and your worship are ground to golden dust.
The armies of the north will sweep away your tribe,
prophet of the exile. It is yours to cry
for Judah, who cannot be cleansed by any soap or lye.
Lift your voice, o weeper Jeremiah, raise it high.
They’ll say your son was sired by another on the sly
you’ll store these things up in your heart until he comes to die
A sword will pierce your soul; a spear your baby’s side;
Mary, take your cup and drink it dry.
In Bethany you broke your alabaster jar
and poured the perfume on his feet that soon would carry scars.
Costly oil of spikenard, Mary, lift it high –
for this one last anointing, your hair will serve to dry.
I am the Son of Man, who must be lifted high;
I am Israel’s ram, slain by Israel’s knife;
I am the broken jar, poured out and emptied dry;
I am the living water that fills your cup with life.
I have drunk the bitter cup to draw an end to thirst
and you can bear the lifted cup because I drank it first.
My body is the offered bread that yet would break your fast.
The bitter cup was broken when I was broken last.
Lift up your cup of suffering, and drink it to the last;
raise the draught of mystery till sorrowing is past.
Shelter in the shadow with the broken, living lamb:
your sacrifice; your purchase price; the shattered cup; I AM.
