Good Friday

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This day upon the bitter treeDied one who had he willedCould have dried up the wide sea And the wind stilled,

And when at the ninth hourHe surrenderèd the ghostHis face was faded flower, Drooping and lost.

Who then was not afraid?Targeted, heart and eye,Struck, as with darts, by godhead In human agony.

For him, who with a cryCould shatter if he willedThe sea and earth and sky And them re-build,

Who chose amid the tumultOf the darkening skyA chivalry more difficult- As man to die,

What answering meed of loveCan this frail flesh returnThat is not all unworthy of The god I mourn?

© Arthur James Marshall Smith