Forgive me, Father, I’m afraid.
These people need compassion; How
does my death love them?
When the crows pluck out my eyes
who will see your Children’s light?
The moldering Christ cannot
lay hands upon them, cannot awaken them,
comfort or protect them.
Take this cup, Abba,
give it to the zealots.
Milk-laden sheep of Israel ache,
bleating for the return of
their butchered lambs.
If Barabbas or Judas or Peter
won’t fulfill your prophecy,
then please, God, just this
once, couldn’t you drink