Sunday Bloody Sunday

Sunday, Bloody Sunday

 

Satan,

 

Were you watching as they dragged my battered Jesus from his cell?

Did you gloat on how they’d tortured him, and beaten him so well?

Were there gleeful, loathsome parties in some lower fetid hell,

As a kind of celebration on the day Messiah fell?

Did you mingle with the crowd

Shouting insults vile out loud?

Spitting with them all

Holding them in thrall

Wallowing in pride

Demons beaming wide

Did you laugh the hours away

On Friday, Bloody Friday?

 

Did it give you hellish pleasure as they made him bear his cross

Along the via dolorosa, through the rubbish and the dross?

Did it make you feel triumphant, that at last you were the boss;

That Messiah had been broken, and his true men at a loss?

Did you catch his eye that day

A glance that was to say

You’ve lost what you had

You’ve got it coming bad

Im going to watch you die

Watch you shriek up to the sky.

Did he watch you mock that day,

On Friday, Bloody Friday?

 

As the rude iron nails were planted in his gentle, caring hands

And his ankles pierced with heavy blows, a torture all of mans’,

Did you smile with vile delight?  As all his erstwhile loving fans

Deserted him, the zenith of your plans

Must have seemed to you

To all come true.

For Messiah hung

Feebly strung

On wooden tree

Just for your glee.

Did you watch him, wordless, pray

On Friday, Bloody Friday?

 

And as they raised his cross up high, did you laugh deep in your soul?

As they dropped the cursed cross into its hellish prepared hole,

And he gasped in pain and terror as the nerves jangled their toll,

Did your inner being exultate as at last you got your goal?

You felt the triumph then

Over God and over men

Your blasted nether hells

Rang their dissonant bells

To tell the demons how

Satan’s rule was started now.

Every devil had his day

On Friday, Bloody Friday.

 

At the third hour, your power 

Spat out, and in hell’s deep bower

They rejoiced at victory won.

 

Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani?

 

I thirst.

 

Blessed are they that thirst

 

It

Is

Finished.

Friday, Bloody Friday.

 

Temple curtain rent in twain

Thieves crying out in pain

Alone, unloved, 

Hung

Messiah.

 

But were you doubtful of the battle you had hard won, even then?

A huge round stone, you got your men

To seal Messiah’s body in

The cold grey tomb of death.

And, sure now that all was done

You head from tomb of the Son

Down down returning to your throne

Of blasted stone and mire.

 

Three days of celebration gone, did you at last arise

And look out from your portals, as the son began to rise?

And Mary heads toward the grave, I imagine your surprise

As loud she wails “He is not there” , the stone lies flat, unprised.

Oh would it be that I could have seen

The pain upon your face

As Messiah turned mortal death around

And ushered in his grace.

 

In caverns deep the wailing starts, a hellish song so full of dread

And dying hopes that you did aspire

All lie crushed beneath the heel

Of him that you thought dead

He is Alive! Your demons shriek; He is arisen! Flee!

For hell’s own boundaries are shook

And prisoners set free.

 

Oh, do you remember, long ago, the nadir of your days?

Do you remember all your power leeched by he who prays

Above and to the Father?  He who all fear allays?

 

Then recall, with deep’ning dread

The words you shrieked out to the dead;

The words that will not go away:

 

SUNDAY, BLOODY SUNDAY.

 

 

 

 

© Roger Wright 2004 

All rights reserved.

Advertisements

J’ai Peur

I spend much of my life in fear.

Fear and dread.

I am mostly frightened of things that have not happened, things that probably will not happen, and things that are not happening.

Yet, inside my head, fear lurks like a scarab, scratching and scraping at frayed nerve ends; never ceasing, except, perhaps, for that first few seconds of awakeness following sleep, when all the possibilities of a good day are crammed into a few, brief moments.  

I am a sufferer from a mental illness, I am not stupid; I know that certain things of which I am afraid are unlikely to happen, I know that the world is not as my head interprets it.  Yet, there is, seemingly, no escape from the dread that comes with every telephone ring, with every siren, with every knock upon theoor.  The unopened mail that is official has fear written all over it, as surely as if the sender had inscribed ‘Be afraid of the content of this letter’ in bright red crayon on the envelope.  Flashing blue lights that hint at emergency, arrest – cardiac and otherwise! – , exposure, lies; each whirring beat of the helicopter blade that hovers in the neighbourhood, looking watching, listening.

Shame of loss; losing a home, a loved one, a partner, a child.  Shame, indeed, of having the fear in the first place; as a human being, supposedly wise in years, it is unbecoming, as a Christian, it is damning in itself as commentators professional and personal remind you that the bible ‘says’ ‘Do Not Fear!’ many many times.  These are fears that you will be shunned not only by community, church, and friends, but by very God Himself.  The dread of letting down your family or your friends – actual, virtual, or imaginary – is a constant companion.

One is assaulted by doses of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy – if one is lucky – from the psychiatric department, mostly which seeks to persuade kindly, but instead can instill the fear of failing the practitioner.  The drugs should alleviate the terror, but one is frightened to tell someone that they do not.

Living with fear is a by product of PTSD and depressive illness.  It is exhausting and it drains. It also, strangely, increases belly fat.  Prolonged Cortisol release, without breaks, can cause weight gain around the middle. Cortisol is a fight-or-flight hormone released when one is anxious or emotional.

I’m frightened of something that does not exist. 

I’m frightened of people laughing at me for being frightened of something that does not exist.

J’ai peur.