flows across windshield
on Route Sixty-Six
I am a poet, blogger, and Oregon resident.
We watch our blood streak under Your beautiful emblazoned sky;
Our tears mix with the mist of our brothers.
Our celebrations twist into horror, and
We taste the sorrow on our lips.
Liberate us through Your Son’s scourged body.
Quiet power stands wordless before Pilate;
His defense not to answer the governor’s questions.
Equate us beside His cross,
Shelter us underneath His resurrected glory.
with tender coconuts,
Turns bitter when
the nut’s husk
falls, the meat
Crave the jelly milk
of the Word,
of the Lord.