Sunday, 13 April 2014

Palms

A shattering jar
emits the essence of extravagance, 
her fragrance-filled palms,
from her brokenness,
anoint 
and 
pour a perfumed provocation,
spirit consumed
in worship; 
forgetting the poor
and jolting Judas.
Kissing in the coming kingdom,
touching her maker,
skin on skin,
placing
hair in hands on feet,
beckoning burial,
anticipation in the scene,
the scent of intimacy 
rising.

By day,
holy feet hang,
inches above dusty ground,
on cloaks laid out,
king condescending on a colt,
as psalms through palms resound,
ecstacy
from a praying, baying mob,
(this place is rigged to fever pitch,
in parting praise)
rhythm in the waves, demands to save,
his heartbeat for the end of days...
 
Four sleeps on,
reaching his cross-road,
hand branches are bloodied,
two palms,
split and pierced,
the world hanging by his fingertips,
when clouds eclipse the crowd 
the sun goes down...