Good Friday

The sun of April is ardent still, and good,

and the furrow of expectation shines;

but today do not fill its longing breast,

because Jesus suffers.

Do not stir the earth. Let go, meekly,

the hand from the plow; abandon the fields

when they are already returning to us the hope

that even Jesus suffers.

Already the blood has run under the olives

and three times he has heard one he loved deny him.

but -- rebel of love -- his heart still beats,

still suffers.

Because you, harvestman, sow hate

and I nurse my rancor at dusk,

and a boy walks like a weeping man,

Jesus suffers.

He is still on the wooden frame

and his lip trembles with terrible thirst.

I hate my bread -- my verse -- my happiness,

because Jesus suffers.


~Gabriela Mistral