Do you remember the adoring crowds
as they lined the streets
and covered them with palms?
How they didn’t understand?
How they turned into a fickle mob
later that week
in their disappointment and anger?
Do you remember the fear you felt
that night in the garden,
as you were dealt the fatal kiss
and fought to be strong enough?
Do you remember the weight
of the cross on your shoulder?
On the long, lonely walk
to the green hill faraway?
Do you remember the agony
as you hung there, helpless and alone?
and the pain of the nails
as they seared through your hands?
Do the red holes in your hands
Reflect a black hole in the heart
Of humanity?
Why do we kill our men of peace?
Why was the scene repeated
all those centuries later
in a scented garden in New Delhi
and on a lonely balcony in Memphis?
Why do we do it?
Kill the men of peace
and exalt the men of war?
While the ghosts of Martin and Mahatma
shake their heads and shed silent tears
That painful tang of Good Friday
can arrive in many guises.
But the dawn of Easter Sunday
is always just over the stark horizon.
And truth and love and beauty
Will rise in glory.
And while the fading sun sets in the west
Remember the Moon can rise in the east
Peter Sagar
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