Meditation: Easter

Died with Him

Old blood,
the color of chocolate,
stains deep, steeped
into the tightly woven fabric.

The wounds fresh in memory
cannot be washed away.
The touch of iron pounded
through live flesh.
The vision of pain, his eyes
alive in the depths of agony.
The spear that pierced a heart.

In linen wrapped the sight,
the marks of death.

My death wrapped within that cloth.
My blood soaked into its fibers.
Laid, buried the stains.

c. Darlene Moore Berg