“Show me a miracle, Lord,” I shout, my voice rough with sorrow.
(Minneapolis bleeds under my feet, and
my preschoolers tell me, wide-eyed, that hope looks like a lion).
I clamor louder in demand of an answer, afraid of silence.
“Show me a miracle, Lord,” they shout, their voices sharp with impatience.
(Galilee bleeds under their feet, and
the woman, the one they turn away from, anoints his feet with perfume and tears).
They clamor louder in defense of their laws, terrified of this outlaw.
“Show us a miracle, Lord,” we demand, our voices sharp as nails.
(Calvary bleeds under our feet, and
celestial splinters litter the ground of this wild, wild hill).
We clamor louder, as if we could ever shout down the still, small voice.
“Show us a miracle, Lord.”
(but the answer bleeds under our feet for three days straight, and
when the veil tears in two, top to bottom, we are terrified to the core, because)