A Sonnet for Good Friday

The Garden of Gethsemane

















Good Friday

I cannot see the stars. Most midnight nights
As deeply dark as this send forth their stars
To stand out sharp before the shapely black
Backdrop of shade and space, a foil for
Their concentrated crisp white light like ice-
drops dripping fast in springtime’s flashing sun,
Like lakes of brightness boiled, pressed, and packed
Into a single starpoint, split and flung
In scattered fragments on the sky; but now,
Tonight, a terror takes the darkness, holds
It down to nearly meet the ground, and grows
Too stark and starless in its heartless cold:
This falling fate, this nothing, is not night:
This darkness in the daytime seems the death of light.


~ Admonit



















In the Church of the Holy Sepulchre



Listened to: Brahms's and Mozart's Requiems.