Good Friday

Where have you taken Him?


Where have you taken my Lord?


I have stolen away my Lord.
I have misplaced Him in my thievery and, like Mary, I am weeping at the empty tomb.
I hid Him in my robes, carried Him away, jostling among the folds of heavy material as I ran.
Breathless, chest heaving, arms tingling, I put Him down, shook out the folds of my garment.
Like Death, I stretched out my shrouded arm, and pointed, away.
I turned my face and did not look at His as I cast Him out, bid Him go.
I did not follow His departure with my eyes.
Something glittered brighter somewhere else.
And, Oh! Today, this day
I miss the Gold of His presence.
I stand among Joseph’s brothers, in good company.
I pray thee, tell me where I can find Him
that I may fall before Him in repentance and in love.
I have stolen away my Lord.
I have misplaced Him in my thievery, and like Mary, I am weeping at the empty tomb.