On this hill

On this hill

In darkest daylight
with all sin revealed
the host is lifted high.
There is no melancholy melody to this sacrifice,
no quietude of choir-filled gentility
to align thought and soul.
This altar of absorbing pain
staggers the senses, grips the mind.

This is a solitary place.
A hermitage
crowded with broken hearts
and wounded spirits
oblivious of their fellows.

Let sense be dulled;
for here the sting of death
awaits those who turn their face
for easier vistas.
This unquiet beauty of wracked passion
steals the splendour of simpler creations
and scourges art and word and song.

Tears are the sea
from which this mast arises,
this lighthouse which signifies
wrecking rocks and vicious tides.
The storm which ravages here
breaches time and place,
pulsing of life and void of death.
A lightning flash shears the curtain,
the thunderous roar
a fanfare to sanctity.

On this hill eternity is on trial;
a single soul it’s witness,
the jury a world of closed eyes.

A timbered suffering sacrifice
sees my small pain
and weeps
for me.


originally a 'faithwriters challenge' entry
‘On this hill’ published by Haruah Jan 2008 and by RootsWorship March 2008
This is one of a series of 12 poems for Holy Week.