The Maundy Thursday stripping of the church:
a haunting sign of all that has been lost,
what chill descends, what void, what restless search,
to grasp what sin has wrecked, what grace has cost.
My God, no less a personage than he –
our Lord himself, Jesus, Beloved One –
was murdered not by their iniquity:
I am the murderer of God’s own Son.
So I am haunted on this night by sorrow
inside a church that ritual denudes.
I mourn tonight God’s death upon the morrow,
yet still, the meaning flies, full truth eludes.
My mind is darkened still by Satan’s lies.
But three nights hence I know: my God will rise.