The Hill

I wanted you
to understand
the nature of my love
as you struggled to climb
the bewildering hill
behind your young son,
who carried the wood.

Carry the wood, my son.

I wanted you
to play the part of me
in this dread rehearsal
and trust me, even
as your sick heart sank
and your hands trembled
with the knife and tears
blurred your eyes.

Love mercy.

I want everyone
who reads your story
to imagine themselves.
I want them to remember
that I did this
because I so loved.

Who has believed?

I want everyone
to understand
that your story
magnified my story

as the father of fathers,

who knew your name
before you were,

who bled grace
before it was needed,

who provided the lamb
to be put on the wood,
lifted up and consumed
to redeem all.

This was the plan all along.
It is finished.

Claire Juno, © 2019