Good Friday, Early Spring

When they lifted up the cross,
I thought it was a giant crocus.
Cloaked in heavy velvet,
the cross was held by each end
as if outstretched arms
pierced through purple petals.
They unpeeled the flower-
cloth at the altar, leaving
God on the cool stem,
stranded under stained glass light.
We bow on each knee
to the cross and the crocus,
and to the crown of broken
branches above us that burst green. 
Dark petals drift to the floor.
He loves us, he loves us, he loves us.