THE WOLF AND THE LAMB, Book One of the Berkeley Trilogy by Rosy Cole

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I'm taking the lliberty of re-posting this poem, which first appeared in February, because it is my magnum opus (as regards significance) on repentance, this week's blog topic.

ONCE UPON ASH WEDNESDAY...

It was the same date as today,

Ash Wednesday of that year,

An opaque sky heralded

the bleak disciplines of Lent.

Cremated palm leaves made soot

as fine as stoneground cornsilk,

Echoes of long-past hosannas

Fading in the deadened air.

Metanoia, said the purpled priest,

Examine the inward heart,

Don't stint a loving God who pours

out on his children all he has.

Cherish not what must be left

behind. Toss in the season's pyre

security and vanity,

And mercy will rain down.

Was forteiture of wine enough?

The giving of hard-earned alms?

Precious time bestowed upon the

Forlorn and sick and exiled?

A rigorous schedule of

study, abstinence from all

forms of twentieth century

gluttony? And hymns of praise?

No! None of that would answer,

A different sacrifice was due:

My best-beloved of seven years -

bound in deep-forged chains I dare

not break - must be relinquished.

Would God stoop low to pity me

as he had for Abraham,

wanting no filial holocaust?

He did not spare the harrowing,

but gave me Grace to acquiesce

and view a bigger picture.

Three corners are unstable,

Buckling in turn, begging a fourth.

Three demands death, two is viable.

That Good Friday, my birthday,

Swallowed my thenself in its grave.

All's history today. And what

should I conclude? Some kernel of

evergreen truth was broadcast there

without a context of its own?

Wrong time! Wrong place! Wrong life! Wrong..!

It's gone! ...but thrives for ever in

the Land of Resurrection where there's

no melding or giving in marriage.

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