Show and Tell

if we showed you
our hands,
would you find them nicked
from building a house
for the homeless;
or a callous on our thumb
from using the TV remote
too much?

if we showed you
our feet,
would you find them toughened
by walking the corridors
of a hospice
with the terminally ill;
or wrinkled
by too many hours
in the hot tub?

if we showed you
our hearts,
would you find them broken
over the struggles of
the lost, the little, the last, the least;
or would they be clogged
with the plaque
of our consumerized lives?

if we truly want to be
your witnesses,
God of the empty grave,
would you show us
how?

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

dour-faced
in the presence
of stunning sunsets;

stricken with
chronic severity
while surrounded
by gurgling babies;

frozen-souled
when touched
by the warmth
of grace;

if we are made
in your image,
it's no wonder
people think of you
as a grouchy old geezer,
God of Joy.

so, breathe on us . . .

fill our souls with:
laughter which chases away
long faces;
chuckles which wipe
frowns off our brows;
great guffaws
which shatter
frozen hearts;

fill us,
Breath of sidesplitting shrieks,
so we can celebrate
the last laugh
on death.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

dour-faced
in the presence
of stunning sunsets;

stricken with
chronic severity
while surrounded
by gurgling babies;

frozen-souled
when touched
by the warmth
of grace;

if we are made
in your image,
it's no wonder
people think of you
as a grouch old geezer,
God of creation.

so, breathe on us . . .

fill our souls with:
laughter which chases
away long faces;
chuckles which wipe
frowns off our brows;
great guffaws
which shatter
frozen hearts;

fill us,
Breath of sidesplitting shrieks,
so we can celebrate
the last laugh
on death.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

very early
in the mourning,
the disciples huddled
in fear's shadowed corners,
while Pilate
and the religious leaders
drank weak chardonnay
and dropped stale canapes
into the potted plants
at the symphony;

very early
on the first day
of the week,
the women
wandered through
mourning's mist,
their broken hearts
carried gently
in their hands;

very early
in the morning
on the first day
of the week,
leaving death
sitting empty-handed
in the tomb,
Jesus strode into the kingdom,
a bouquet of balloons
filled with grace
in his arms.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

Will I . . . ?

will i lay my cloak
before you,
when they arrest you
on olive mountain,
or pull it tighter
around me
fading into the ranks
of the deserters;

will i shout:
'Blessed is the one who comes
in the name of the Lord!'
when they parade you
before the authorities,
or will i tell any one -
and every one -
around me
that i never met you
in my life;

will i lay my palm branches
at your feet,
as they march you
to Calvary,
or use them
to put more stripes
on your bloody back;

will i run behind you
when they carry you
to the tomb,
or turn away
as the ashes
of my hopes
are rubbed
into my shattered heart?

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman