Good Friday

by Tim Kauffman

Death’s pall falls again.
Dread mocks, mires men.
Suffocation, separation,
splendor shaken
Why? Cry. Fly—
Still die.
Fears rear, blear hope, press tears
Like wine.
Cries, crushed—
“Eloi, lema sabachthani?”
Rip silence, ripple stillness’ surface,
Echo still.

Voice of our isolation,
Priest of our desolation
Who suffers with us.
With us, who suffers
Suffers with Him.
Suffers death of hope in hope
Of hope victorious;
Sorrows through Sabbath;
Waits Easter’s rise.

Tim Kauffman is a student who loves poetry, theology, beauty, good conversation, and any juxtaposition of these.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

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