A Poem For Good Friday
Anxiety is a free-fall from too-high-up,
Jetting toward the rock-hard,
Flailing in a grab-nothing way,
Screaming in a make-no-sound panic.
Anxiety is Good Friday.
Not in a Sunday’s-coming hope
But
In a hidden-through-Jerusalem grief.
Good Friday is dark Friday,
Black Friday,
Nothing-good-about-this-day Friday.
Good Friday is rough wood,
Rusted nails,
Sharp thorns.
But a hyacinth I believed long dead
Is growing purple among weeds,
Pushing up through hard ground
With aroma sweet as hope.
susiefinkbeiner.com 
Beautiful! Thank you!
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Thank you, Robyn.
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Beautiful…Thank you!
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Oops…I wasn’t patient enough to wait for my first comment to show up. Oh well…your poem deserves 2 “beautiful”s.
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Ha! I’ll take it! 🙂
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