Your final words from that cross are still ringing in our ears.
We followed you for years, and it all ends like this?
Where are you?
Are you gone?
Can the One you called Father no longer hear our cries or feel our anguish or siphon our tears into His bottles of grief?
Where is He?
Why is the face of the Divine hidden from the mortal?
Why have we been forsaken?
We are scattered like sheep.
We are undone.
We are lost.
We speak to You, but there is no answer.
We cry out, but there is no comfort.
Our bones are dried up from weeping.
Our hearts are liquefied from fear.
Can You return to us from the grave, as You brought others back to life?
Can the dead who raised the dead raise Himself from the dead?
Are You really the Son of God?
Or did we waste our time, only to waste away now — slinking back together in secret, in terror for our lives; in dread of escaping the threat that took You and returning to empty lives?
Where have You gone that we can’t follow?
What mansion can be built inside a tomb by the dead?
We try to believe.
But we can’t even believe You’re gone.
If somehow You still live …
Outside of our hearts
Beyond our memories
Out of the reach of all pain
In a place that’s real …
Don’t leave us.