Good Friday [1]
O dearest word, the very Word indeed,
Breathes on our striving, for the cross is done;
All fate forgotten and from judgement freed,
Call Him then less - Who shows us this - Your Son?
Look it is here, at death, not three days later,
The love that binds the granite into being.
Here the sea's blueness finds its true creator,
His glance on Golgotha our sun for seeing.
Nor say the choice is ours, what choice is left?
Forgiveness shows God's Will most fully done.
There on the cross the myth of hell is cleft,
And the black garden blazes with the sun.
Hold close the crown of thorns, the scourge, the rod,
For in His sweat, full front, the face of God.
[1] S. Grant, “Grant and the Theology of the Cross” (1996), 248 (citing United Church Observer 13.6 (15/05/1951): 16).
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