Poem by Charles A. Waugaman

‘GOOD’ AS IN FRIDAY

He fashioned from their cross
a throne.
He made of death a door.
He robed his nakedness
in love,
And needed nothing more.

For though they wrapped his
broken flesh
in linen crisp and white,
He left sin’s costly fabric
soiled
And cloaked himself in light

That shines the centuries
undimmed
to pierce earth’s dark despair,
By spilling scarlet car-
peting
Up Heaven’s radiant stair.

By Charles A. Waugaman
The Word Incarnate
Elin Grace Publishing, 2003
All Rights Reserved