for Matt Ballou
Your painting, to me, depicts memory
quickly fading — only two days later—
of that fateful Friday: Romans’ gory
nailing him to splintered wood, sharp saber
slashing his side — then loved ones deposing
him from jagged cross, psyches shocked from touch
of his carcass. Yet soon they would kneel, sing
of his rising, leaving the tomb. Arms clutch
his apostles, his mother before his
ascension. And that lifting from our earth
through sky, form easing from sight — only this
invites blurring of that Friday, rebirth
of faith and hope as every saddened face
fades, leaving love’s energy in its place.
Roger Armbrust
April 5, 2015
