Good Friday


How one man, who can be,
Only defined by one Latin word – Caritas,
Chose to be nailed to a cross 
To save a species, whose wisdom
Stood second to sin. In this moment in history,
We remember the most selfless act in a long history
Of mankind. How a 33 year old man, saved a race,
Who is now governed by a supreme sense,
Of claustrophilia, the inner sanctum,
That gets filled by one soul mate,
And a feeling called amour.

Jesus stood that day, as the stooge of God’s plan,
The linchpin of God’s promise,
The son of God, who stood in the pouring rain,
Mud puddles forming on the clayed earth
Near him, while the trickle of blood,
Tainted the flow through, while sandaled
Guards walked around, keeping vigil,
Not knowing that this was all a master plan.
Judas’s kiss to the Pieta to the rising,
A world of betrayal, mourning and triumph,
How one man went from a claustrophobic grotto,
To an act transcending Houdini.

How in that blurry Sunday,
A grotto stood empty, with no occupants,
Only a riddle for the science-minded,
And the origin of belief, for the faithful,
And every time we munch a hot-cross bun,
We remember the hour, a cross stood in the pummeling rain,
Flooding three women whose kitchens Jesus occupied,
Without knowing, he too would be symbolized by
What stands in every woman’s kitchen;
A fresh loaf of leavened bread,
That too a rising by a little eukaryote,
Merely some cells of yeast.

How this story outlasted others,
And became the staple of a religion,
Gathering under one domed roof,
To celebrate a daring fugitive.
How Sunday brunch is always in church,
Men and women queuing up, for a meal,
Of bread chips and cheap alcohol.

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