Sketch by Patrick Murphy

Before time

          your counsels chose

          that you would lose

eternal ties

          with your one

          and only Son.

Not sparing Him

          you let the whips

          fall and the blood drip.

Judges condemned

          as the priests quipped.

On a dark hill,

          like Abraham

          you left your Lamb.

No bright angel

          unveiled a ram

snared in thickets

          by its horns.

          Instead, the thorns

on Christ’s head

          caught the sacrifice

          of God’s own life.

Nails split

          His wrists and feet

          and severed sweet

communion, which

          left you bereaved.

Not even birth

          pangs compare to

          what you went through

at your Son’s death.

          Abba, thank you.


The form of this poem was inspired by “Hymne to God the Father” by Ben Jonson