With tea and toast, set in a well-conditioned room,
We talk about His torments: those betrayals, nails,
Endurance of ignominy, the wounds and wails,
The sponge and vinegar, the linen cloth and tomb.
We’re well-conversant with the scriptures verbatim,
And, hence, believe we are the knowers of His life,
Seldom perceiving: Comfort cannot fathom Strife.
We then conclude our congregation with a hymn.
But when I am absorbed in chores, say, to replace
The fence, and if the hammer hits my fingertips,
Then fury-impregnated words acquire my lips,
Which otherwise don’t even cross my mental space.
It’s when I get a faint sense of The King of Kings,
Whom man himself (and not an object) made his prey
But who still uttered, “Father, forgive them; for they……”.
It’s when I learn I know naught of His sufferings.
