good, Friday

What year, which reading,
will the cries of "no king but Caesar"
curdle our own blood when we speak them
with our lives?

Our legs broken that we might bow,
bend the knee, quibbling
before governors for our murderous
intentions fulfilled.

Righteousness, goodness,
love, meekness: despised and crucified.

Enemy forgiveness, suffering swallowed,
endured.

O Caesar, you don't understand.
Forgive us for giving
you power, corrupting you,
giving you reason
to smirk.

Lord, we kill, we die,
but let us rise above
our derelict voices, our
choice for power.

Restore us to
exiled love.