He carried His cross.
Long before the tree
became lumber,
He hoisted it onto His
muscled shoulders,
foretelling
in deed and word
what would be
the way.
Peter named Him "Messiah"
but denied the cross hairs
of crucifixion,
as did those begging favors
in the Kingdom.
And we ignore the sacrifice
demanded by
Christ's way:
ignoring sexual indiscretions,
claiming racial wholeness
in the face of blatant bias
and choosing power
over submission.
Blind Bartamaeus sat
off to the side
as the tide of humans
seethed past.
His shouts rose above the
cacophony:
"Mercy! Lord, have mercy!"
while the tide murmured, "Quiet, man!"
"Jesus - look upon me! Mercy!
When called to the Master's side,
Bartamaeus threw aside
his threadbare but precious cloak
and groped his way forward,
fingers poking sweaty noses
and oily hair en route.
"What do you want me to do for you?"
- an earthshaking question
if ever there was one.
Do I really want to leap headfirst
into the river of change,
leaving behind all that I have
ever known?
"Master, I want to see."
And so he received:
in the next blink
He saw Jesus framed
in golden Jericho dust
and followed Him
along the way
to the cross.
What do I want Him to do for me?
Mercy, Lord.
Forgive my blindness -
that self-focused entitlement
that shuns vulnerability
and embraces others
only with armor firmly
in place.
Have mercy on my denial -
my refusal
to walk in your way
and yet proudly bear
your label
though I tarnish it
daily.
Have mercy, Lord.
I want to see.
