good friday

my Lord has died.
and after we lay him down,
after the weeping
there's nothing we can do
but return to his house
his father's house
and because it seems impossible
that we will not see him again
because he would want his home well-ordered
i can only go,
fold his tablecloths,
clean his plates,
straighten his candlesticks,
and fish that paperclip out from under the cushion.

i cannot speak, cannot sing, cannot sigh
i am weak
i cannot think, cannot believe that he is gone
gone for good
and i clutch to my heart
the things of his house
as if by the work of my hands
i could make this right.

i would listen to music
or birds
or sing
or something
but instead i strain my ear to hear
is that him?
is that him on the stair?

and i try to remember his face, his voice
every word he said
and later, when i'm done working here
i will go out into the street
looking for him
in every face
of every person that i meet
in every place
for signs of grace
and i will ask:
did you see him?
can you remember what he said?
can you tell me?
can you tell me that he isn't gone?
can you tell me that he isn't dead?

he will come, he will come
i know he will;
i know he must
i've things to polish
and things to dust
i'll make this clean; i'll make this bright
but there's no power in my small hands
to turn a bit of this to right
and yet i'll put things in their place
his dishes clean, my heart made still
his table set, awaiting grace
my Lord will rise;
i know he will.