Good Friday, The Veneration

If desired, a wooden cross may now be brought into 
the church and placed in the sight of the people.

He lies prostrate before 
the altar, his face on the floor, 
our rended priest. 
He is so low on our behalf 
a centurion could trample 
footprints on his back.

 The liturgy of violence 
is the work of the people. 
O Gabbatha, O Golgotha, 
a mob feeling comes 
with our clamor. 
Away with him! We have 
no king but the emperor.

 The cross trudges 
the road of the nave, 
is starkly raised. 
We touch the hurt wood, 
some sinking down. 
This rood that bears our praise 
dreams of a fruiting tree 
in a garden, roots around 
the skull of Adam.

 We pray the solemn 
collects and take a collection 
for the saints in Jerusalem. 
We weep with the wailing 
daughters thereof, 
and with our brothers, 
the thieves.