First hour of Good Friday

Stained glass star, muted by night.
The magic has been done and waits

In a simple ceramic container,
In a tall cloaked pitcher alongside

A white, unevenly melting candle as
Wide as my palm in the dark church.

The structure is still settling, plank
By plank, in every pew or overhanging

Arch, like we’re inside the ribs of a beast
Deep underwater. Under pressure that

Would kill us if we faced it alone.
Only us and the waiting god

Who’s asked us to stay awake. To sit awake
While time wears the faces off all witness.

Dimmed lights crouch into the ceiling,
Emitting the hum of unreachable space.