We live and we die
waiting for the justice of God,
Our hearts rent open,
We try pressing bloodstained bandages
to the festering wounds of the world.

This stark, desolate utopia
once called the Kingdom of God
Now naked having deposed her King
Perhaps thinking that medicine supplied
might work without him.

Where are the believing ones, O God.
Where are those being transformed,
Those not glorying in their brokenness
but selfishly flinging themselves into the arms
The arms of the one who makes us whole in his brokenness
Where are the cracks in our own facade
Why do we still hold these fragile masks of joy so close to our faces
So tightly, these fragile lies
These lying personas with cracks through which reality presses
Presses to make the truth known
Yet we keep them to hide ourselves
The tighter we hold them
The deeper the cracks fracture and reality presses through

That silent whisper in Incarnation,
thundering into the loud roar of atonement.
That the light shines in darkness,
that darkness which will not overtake it.
Those words on the broken dying man’s lips,
It is finished.