Easter Weaving

Across centuries and miles, we are strung together,
By chaotic twinnings of silken threads which float
lightly across our skins and beckon fraternity.
May day coloured ribbons woven in springs.

Same dry ropes constrain us, salted cords like pythons
drain and rasp. Angered welts are woken.
Subtlety forsaken and yoked together,
We trudge into trenches.

From behind the weaver’s wheel
Who would have known His grand design,
To tether our soaring notes and disonant chords,
Into one needle and thread which bleed Easter red.

Through the eye of one needle, He bids us pass,
No camels canter this way nor richly spoken men.
Grappled by thorns, stumbling cotton threads
Are weaved into paradise’s despairing dreads.

Who could have known that the needle would pierce
Four times, two legs, two arms, one bloody side.
And pull us through Golgotha and dye us crimson red.

Until that day when we see His final tapestry,
Our gathered shrods into a master’s feast,
And we are clothed in white,
We wait.