Easter Sunday.
When she thinks of him now, she thinks ofEaster grass and Sunday mornings
when the God-beams filtered through
new spring leaves
and the robins sang to her about
rebirth. She sighs, and thinks
about how he used to smile up at
her with the sunlight fresh on his
hair, and tell her that
Jesus came back to life on this day.
For her, Jesus could never be as important as
his hand absentmindedly stroking
hers while he talked about God and crucifixion
and sins and glory and eternal life and
love greater than any she could
truly comprehend. She listened to his voice, not
his words, and thought
that she need never understand God's love
or Jesus's love
or, if they were the same, then any love
because there would never be a need
for a love greater than the one
she felt for him. But between them was always
God. He loved her, and he loved God, and he
was always afraid that one day he would be forced
to choose between them.
He always said he'd choose her.
"God will understand," he'd tell her, and he'd
stroke her hand and smile, and she believed
him with all her rotten sinner's
heart.
She guesses now there was no way he
could possibly have known how things would
really turn out.
Because in the end, God decided that He needed
His earthly follower more than
she did, and though she never got a chance to
prove Him wrong, she will never forget
each time she thinks of the last time she saw him
under the glaring ambulance lights
how he grasped her hand and told her
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry"
and nor will she ever fail to whisper
every time she thinks of him
"I forgive you. Oh God, I forgive you."
Words by Sun.Moon.Stars.Rain
Read 879 times
Written on 2009-04-20 at 04:31
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