Poetry: Empty

Though perhaps an

old schemer might

be born again.

Sometimes you have to know you were wrong.

You can only deny the truth so long.

A midnight visit to that disputed teacher,

Didn’t manage to make me a believer.

What it accomplished was to tie me in knots

True to form, he foiled all our plots.

How can a man be born again?

Who can know the paths of the wind?

So troubled I forgot my manners.

I left with more questions than answers.

What could he mean “be lifted up?”

If He meant what I thought trouble would erupt.

It didn’t take long for him to draw the lines,

That made distinction between him and my kind.

That fickle crowd with their “Hosannas” and branches,

Thought he would save them from Roman advances.

But I knew from the start he was more than a rebel.

We envied the power and influence he could pedal.

When he told of the vine-growers and the heir,

He was calling us out–it was almost a dare.

Hating him for knowing our jealousies,

We doubled down on our stubborn heresies.

Even knowing the law, we were undeterred.

He wouldn’t be the first our ranks had murdered.

But his crime was born of something more.

And the thought of that rocks me to my core.

I was there when our Roman masters brought him in.

I was there when our select witnesses sought to cozen.

I squirmed at the violence that screamed “Crucify.”

I was there when they raised him up–I watched him die.

Three restless days, I was plagued by what we’d done.

His miracles were real enough, just ask anyone.

He’d been slipping easily through our traps so long

I was forced to ask myself, “What if we were wrong?”

And, if he wasn’t some grasping dissident…

I’m not sure I could allow for what that meant.

But here, this morning, I can no longer deny,

What he claimed be and all it might imply.

I knew he would not save us from Roman reign.

Though perhaps an old schemer might be born again.

The signs are gathered in undeniable plenty,

And that grave before me is clearly empty.

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