Good Friday

What's so good about it? Sitting here waiting,
Huddled in the rain as they take the body down
And everyone laughs and laughs as us.
A real god, they say, wouldn't die from a tree,
not when poked in the side by a human weapon.
Thomas says the weapon was words, but he
Was always favoured and we ignore him, willing
To blaspheme or kill for a cup of coffee for warmth.
(When did it get to be so cold, this world of ours?)
The video cameras watch, motion sensors in the tomb,
Judas off negotiating plea bargain and movie rights.
The others drift away, Peter holding a rock in his hand,
Smiling vapidly, eyes glazed with drugs to dull the pain.
There is talk, behind me, among the followers, of
Carrying the cross becoming an Olympic sport,
Making the Church relevant to the world of today.
I wonder when they'd include crucifixion for the winners,
Acidly, and marketing people's eyes light up, like Eve
Seeing the apple, and I find myself hoping, praying
That He will not return this time, not to a world so full of itself
That it is not worthy of the Lord, but of the terrible mercy
Of the Father and the fires making it Oh! So clean again.