A Sister’s Testament

I cried the night
he died and was put
behind the rock. I
who once threw stones
at him in childish anger
playing in mud.
He was always there
when the boys caught
me alone in the alleys
and put their hands on me.
They feared his strength.
But I loved his kindness,
and how he treated me
more than what they said,
a stupid girl with ideas.

I ran to the marketplace
but was held back the time
they stoned
and went to hurl
him from a cliff.
I saw him walk unhurt
through the furnace
of their anger
and their beards
ate dust. When he left
for the desert,
I could not go.

I heard stories
of healing the sick and dying.
Hard to believe stories.
When he came back
with those who followed,
he spoke in the synagogue.
You are free, he said,
God the protector
of widows and orphans
is alive and among you.

Spittle flew in the air
from the teeth of the elders
and those who read Torah.
They said he had no authority
to speak about God.
Our mother and brothers
begged him for silence
and to return home with them.
You have a demon, they said.

What did they hear in that voice
to fear? I was not afraid.
His eyes drained me like oil
from the lamp, and when
the oil returned, a new flame burned
where the old one had flared.

What he asked was not possible,
but his eyes of mercy
took the burning
shame from my face
and sorrow from my fingers.
I followed to Jerusalem
and saw how the stories were true.
What he did for the outcast.
The coughs and groans of the sick
did not grate my ears. The sick
and dying looked into my eyes
and their faces glowed
like sunset, those I once
would have seen as old men
and women to pity or despise
for their weakness.

I will not repeat
what you have heard.
Before they killed him
like a thief,
I washed his feet and hands
with oil and tears
and wiped them dry with my hair.

Each day I pray in the Temple,
pray for the evil to end.
We feed and help the poor and the widows,
poor and rich, dead and alive,
brother and sister, there is no difference.
From a Father who loves even the hateful
and diseased and brings hope for
the despised, the outcast, any who fear
death from the strong
or the hand of the violent,
he has risen like a song
from winter trees
on a morning after sorrow.

(c) copyright 2012 Charles David Miller. All rights reserved.