Palm Sunday

Each Palm Sunday I tie a frond into a cross.
It stiffens, pales, dries into dross,
fading like my resolve to remember your life,
your loss of love, your sacrifice.

Among the horde of believers waving their palms,
I inhale joy and exhale psalms.

I do not dare to come to your bloody spiked feet,
your rales, your cries. Our eyes might meet:
in that holy reflection I would know my soul,
poor, weak, inflated -- black as coal.

Forgive me my convenient faith, Lord.

Children of Abraham

Sibling rivalry of 
Muslims, Christians, Jews 
causes divine pain for 
the actions we choose, 
and from it all earth has 
everything to lose.

Give Me No Pale Sweet Jesus

Give me no pale sweet Jesus, 
but a radical strongman with a hearty laugh, 
The God-man, 
who evicts moneychangers and bear-hugs children.