These Are My JOTtings, Part #2

The Saddest Sabbath

Perfume He spread where'er He went,
and now in oil, He lay,
perfuming out the death-stench bent
of the grave, which must obey.

The crickets still. The birds don't sing.
The Earth this Sabbath weeps.
The trees in shock host Whippoorwills,
who stare, but do not sleep.

The angels entrusted with His care
are watching tenderly.
Incredulous, they watch and stare.
His bonds, they wish to free.

His disciples rest but fidget sore.
Now, hopeless, they've no peace.
Three years they trusted, but no more.
Their fears won't them release.

This Sabbath there's a deathly still.
Their workweek o'er, they wait.
They pick at food, that tastes like swill.
They finish not their plate.

"We thought that He'd our Savior be.
We thought our lives were new,
but how can He now set us free
when He Himself is through?"

Can there be Hope when all seems lost?
Can new days ever come?
Will we know freedom past the cost?
Is Jesus Victory's sum?

by Jay O’Toole
on April 3rd, 2021