John

The Hosanna is still on our lips.

But crucify seemed sweeter to the mob.

And there he was,

my Lord,

my God,

my friend.

 They murdered Him.

And that's what they don't tell you.

You don't murder a good man.

You ignore a lunatic.

But maybe.

Just maybe.

You would murder God.

You would throw Him down before the law

and plead for cleansing

because you had no God.

You had only justice.

Oh my Lord,

my God,

my friend.

I am worst of all.

Because they say thunder follows lightning

and yet I couldn't follow you.

Golden electricity in the sky.

But the thunder quiet.

Restore.

Oh my Lord,

 please restore unto me what I have lost

and I can promise

that I think I've lost everything.

The Hosanna is still on my lips,

but the thirsty grave has stolen you from me.

Restore.

It is the second morning.

Oh my Lord,

my God,

my friend.

Come back.

♥

xoxo