Fourteenth Station
Good Friday
I am here, watching the hole,
Filled with a rock and still
There is danger, stupid anger.
I heard him speak once;
He was very good. Like a god.
Maybe he was a god.
Maybe he was God.
So we killed God and buried him in a hole.
He’s in the earth, dust to dust.
Dirty man, rotting away.
And here I sit and do nothing.
His friends, his followers,
They pray, they hope.
For what?
Maybe this isn’t the end after all.
Matthew B. Rose
