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| Thirty Shekels' Worth | |
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“I am thirsty.” “I Am,” you gasp through cracked, bleeding lips, Intent on tying off prophecy's skein, Proclaiming Your deity with Your dying breaths. And even Your aching thirst, unslaked by human hands, Was forecast so long ago, So that now You fulfill Your Father's word In a grating whisper before the end. You began Your ministry in gnawing hunger And complete it choking on gall, Cotton-mouthed for lack of water. Is there no suffering too greatFor you to endure in our place?Neither can Your heavenly Father quench The searing thirst of your parched soul, Pining for the precious living water that once flowed In unceasing rivulets from His throne To You as His beloved Son. You can drink of it no more, For the blessed stream has met an impassable dam In the untold sin that you have become, As He is pleased to crush you. Sin clogs Your lungs like puss, Cakes Your insides like dust. You drown in the cesspool's depth, But Your Father cannot even cast His weeping eye upon You, For You are forsaken, separated from Him— As we should have been. He wills it thus; You comply without complaint. Then lo! “It is finished!” Your cry rings triumphant through the stale air And ascends to the seething heavens. The Lord unleashes His wrath upon the earth… The price is paid. by Jessie Kirchner | |
© Copyright 2004 by Jessie Kirchner
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