!Goretti Publications Gopherspace - Poetry
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The Worst of Days
Donald P. Goodman III

For long the darkness, thick and brutal, clouds the world,
a suffocating cover, stealing light and air;
about all things excruciatingly it's curl'd,
a monster, fangs a-drip, which made the world its lair.
In vain our plaints and curses at the dark are hurl'd,
but naught could for such hollow misery prepare:
before, behind, and with us only sorrow lays,
on this day of our passion; this, the worst of days.

For finally we had seen a glimmer of some hope,
a speck of light which pierc'd the endless depths of night,
a tiny fire far out at sea, through telescope,
for which the rolling waves of blackness we could fight;
a flashlight, known but darken'd, for which we could grope;
a flame which could a dark and frigid world ignite;
a hope beyond all hope did rise before our gaze,
before this day of passion; this, the worst of days.

But even that one hope, which we could barely grasp,
a hope beyond our knowing soon was taken down;
long-beaten by the beasts with scourge and roughen'd rasp,
mock'd brutally with misery and sorrow's crown;
from wooden throne came tortur'd, suffocated gasp,
and in its death did hope in endless darkness drown;
the world its own one hope in hatred now betrays,
on this day of its passion; this, the worst of days.

But still, this treason tore the curtain twain in two,
and open'd wide the door which had been shut to light;
the sun, more dark than ever, soon will shine anew;
our hope, now dead, will put the cold and dark to flight.
For tomb lasts not forever; our release is due,
and promis'd by that hope with e'er unfailing might;
that hope which shows the way beyond all other ways,
on this day of its passion; this, the worst of days.