Good Friday

"That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy cross,
To number drop by drop Thy blood’s slow loss,
And yet not weep?"
  Christina Rossetti

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Sackcloth on our backs

Ashes in our mouths

Wailing loudly and bitterly

Morning maniac music

Awakens me to the truth

Those who once brought hope

Now mired in a maggoty apathy 

And that, over the mountains,

Black clouds scud with a perverted vivacity

Killing as they go - look, there's blood on the floor

Refugees waiting

Knocking at your door.

Seeking sanctuary.

Some say

Christendom in the west has fallen

Collapsed from within,

Deep, deep in the luxuries of a world without sin.

Oh! I'm glad I never fell in love with you


Glad that I try to speak

Of  our endless, numbered days

But I cannot begin to say.

Children crucified, mass graves,

Images that will never


No crystal ball


No prescience


Give me your hand

Let us pray,

With ashes in our mouths,

For this new day

As iron enters the soul,

In a world

Suddenly grown old. 




◄ The drawing of a torch

After the genocide ►


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John Marks

Fri 19th Apr 2019 19:23

Thank you Steve. I'll try them.

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John Marks

Thu 18th Apr 2019 22:18

Thank you Keith. Your support means a lot.

If the west refuses to learn the lessons of sacrifice, then we'll deserve to go the way of Rome and Constantinople. Orthodox Christian communities in the Middle East put us to shame.

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keith jeffries

Thu 18th Apr 2019 21:57


A poem of deep anguish to which so many of us can relate. It comes from your heart so has a real heartfelt integrity. The dual photgraph which leads your poem is a dilema, a sample of the misery we witness every day. To draw any sense from this is quite impossible, but you have spoken for many in this poem and it has my respect.

Thank you for your courage and integrity


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