An UNHOLY Holy Week

What Jerusalem and Brussells share in common

Happiness is trumped by heartache.
A victory parade ends
in a victim’s funeral procession.
History has a way of repeating itself.
Between Palm Sunday and Good Friday,
life happens.
Death, too.

Cries of joy give way to tears of grief.
A hero’s welcome morphs into a martyr’s farewell.
A beautiful scene is blindsided by a bloody act
that smacks of a Garden variety serpent.
Amid the brown and brittle palms (once green),
evil rears its ugly head.

Then as now, fear grips as terror strikes.
Those who search the grisly scene
find evidence of what they suspected.
Upon close examination, a calling card surfaces.
Satan’s fingerprints are everywhere.

Hope is held hostage. Death has defeated life.
Mourning has broken us
shattering any dream of normalcy.
The shards of sorrow cut to the core.

But Holy Week does not conclude on Friday.
This one week of the year is eight days long (not six).
The demons are dancing prematurely.
Though wrong seems to have won,
Right has not been left in the dust.
A grave cannot hold Him.

Christ is risen!
He is risen, indeed!

The Eyes of Saint Patrick

New lyrics to an old Irish folk tune

When Patrick’s eyes were crying
he winced at what he saw.
A nation filled with heathens
who broke God’s holy law.
Aware they needed Jesus,
he pointed out the way.
This shepherd of the Irish
cried tears of joy that day.

Then Patrick’s eyes were gleaming
with love for those he served.
A people born in darkness
whose faith was now assured.
He showed them God’s great mercy
and showed us how to care
by making time for others
and learning how to share.

When Patrick’s eyes were closing
as death was drawing nigh,
he welcomed what awaited
for those about to die.
He left this world believing
his work on earth was done
and all because he trusted
in God’s beloved Son.

*the above lyrics can be sung to the tune for “When Irish Eyes are Smilin'”

Good Lord, He’s a Bad Candidate

Why I hope Donald Trump is not the GOP’s nominee

I pledge allegiance to a flag,
not to an arrogant wind bag.
When Trump insists I raise my hand,
my blood begins to boil.

If Trump’s elected we would see
he’d call it Washington, DT.
The White House would be spray-tanned orange
and called Trump Tower South.

In real estate he may be great.
His wine’s okay.
So, too, his steak.
But Donald Trump as President?
Good Lord, that would be bad!

A Spotlight on Spotlight

Why the Boston Globe priest scandal story deserved an Oscar

Spotlight aims a spotlight
on a scandal long ignored
where ‘men of God’ abused the innocent.
The Globe revealed a heinous crime
that reaches ’round the world.
A crime for which the flames of Hell are meant.

When Cardinal Law dispensed cheap grace
and harbored guilty priests,
the Gospel he proclaimed was for the birds.
The Lord reserves a millstone
for those leading kids astray
so we’d do well to heed the Savior’s words.

Let’s ask the Lord to heal the wounds
of those who doubt His love
and cannot trust His Church although they try.
These countless victims of abuse
still languish in their shame
not knowing what’s the truth and what’s a lie.