Ruah Bull - Spiritual Director

 Nailed to the silent cross Of soul-breaking Empire- We stand amid the lost Angels, held back weeping No presence, comfort, power Displayed before those jeering But cries of trust, despair and blessing And love that is unmaimed The Father, stricken, waiting You see and hear from hell and Hell Each tortured empty heart That begs and yes: this Mercy

A garden inside me, unknown, secret, neglected for years, the layers of its soil deep and thick. Trees in the corner with branching arms and the tangled briars like broken nets. Sunrise through the misted orchard, morning sun turns silver on the pointed twigs. I have woken from the sleep of ages and I am not sure if I am really seeing, or dreaming, or simply astonished walking toward sunrise to have stumbled into the garden where the stone was rolled from the tomb of longing.