A rhyme in three – a perfect form to write
about the holy trinity;  and ho-
ly week the perfect time, both dark and bright. 

‘Twas holy week two thousand years ago
in which the triune God lost one of three;
on Friday Good the middle said he’d go

away in isolation on a tree.
The fragmentation of the holy One
a visceral and shocking surgery,

an amputation bearable to none,
but only this division made us free.
And so we sing our worship of the Son,

on this the Saturday before our Ea-
ster dawns with lilies, hope, and sun and joy.
We cannot say we know the mystery

of separated God; we can’t employ 
a lie and say we grasp the love that caused         
his humbling himself in master ploy

the devil’s power to destroy;  he paused
earth’s time, and Lucifer, frustrated by
his loss, could not prevent the corpse engauzed

from changing, waking, walking, slipping by.
We cannot claim we understand;  we on-
ly bow our heads and lift our hands up high

to take the holy gift. Unbroken bone,
bled out, with broken heart and punctured side,
the perfect form of selfless love we’re shown.

And thus we sing our hymns this Eastertide.