In the silence of the sanctuary,
The bread and juice still linger on my tongue—
The blood and body of the Father’s only Son
Nailed naked to a tree at Calvary.

The punishment of death should have been mine—
But the beaten back and the brow of briar
Were placed upon the One with no wrong desire,
Who seeks me out and leaves the ninety-nine.

He was whipped and spit upon, called names
So I would be healed under crimson covers
And not weep or tremble at Death on Friday.

Throughout this silent space, wonder like smoke from flames
Spirals through the congregants and hovers
In our spirits, waiting for Dawn on Sunday.