A Dying Community - Good Friday


I felt the chill of the tomb,

sepulchral voices

enshrined in black,

in long corridors of shining clean tiles.

But where are the children’s voices,


life-giving green of new shoots

from the established vine?

It feels like an enclosed tomb,

shut off from the fresh air of day –

I long for the breath of the Spirit here,

new life, new wine, green,

Opening on to the world,

the voices of the poor

and those who are searching

for Life.

Come, holy dove,

come and spread your wing,

overshadowing the tomb

of our chill deadness,




Anoint with fresh oil

the root of our being,

that Life may flow once more,

and the voices of children

may be heard,

singing your praises,

O you who are ever fresh,

ever young,

Green sap,

Holy God.