To be human is to deal with death
so I have wagered all to taste the fruit
of this desolate new Eden. To be human
is to court the risk of failure, and so I
embrace this tree of knowledge of despair.
And to be human is to know that God
may be illusion, so I have made myself
human enough to doubt and disbelieve.
What else is left for God to understand?
Faith is the gamble of a dying man.
The condemned son cries out into the dark
guessing his father hears, yet will not come.
What kind of love is this that keeps such silence?
My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
Fourth poem of seven in the sequence words from the cross.
© Godfrey Rust 2003, email@example.com. See here for permissions.