The seven last words: Father, into your hands I commend my spirit

The loud cry startles them:

the lovers and the haters.

With jagged breaths

each syllable hurtles

over the precipice edge

into the void

between

now and the third day.

 

He bows his head.

The lovers weep.

The haters cannot think of what to say.

Hell trembles,

waiting for the harrowing.

© Marion Adams 2016

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