The harder question is not where you’ve gone,
but why you left us here. The work was done,
disposed of on the cross—so why remain?
It’s for our sake you went, you said, so that
the Comforter could be with everyone—
yet isn't there more comfort for us all
to be with you today in Paradise?
Why leave us here, born into suffering,
dying in ignorance, while sin plays out
its tragic farce in world and church alike?
What have we gained by Inquisition,
plague and Holocaust? Silent you watch
Jerusalem—your love and your despair—
despoiled by Abraham’s family's vicious feud.
What has taken you—for whom time is nothing—
two more millennia still to prepare?
It seems your love will not be satisfied
until you live a life out through us all
in the shambling, disunited parody
we call your body. You're gone, yet still here,
and we live on in you and you in us—
the one within the one within—within
the gap of grace and misery between
your resurrection and its consequence.
You have your reasons. Love underwrites them all.
Faith must be worth a great deal if it costs
so much to harvest such a small amount.
"Maranatha: come, Lord Jesus, come."
the Ascension Day
© Godfrey Rust, email@example.com. See here for details of permissions for use.