You were one with the Father.
Then the Father turned his back on you.
You felt forsaken,
hanging there between heaven’s thunder
and the dank spittle of earth.
For that moment you belonged nowhere.
You were love, cut off from love;
truth nailed down by lies.
You must have wanted to explode, to disintegrate,
to disappear into a void.
But that was forbidden.
And that was the test.
Your blood burst through your skin
and ran down like sweat.
Your sweat ran cold
and drained into your heart.
The universe caught hold of your pain.
The sun went blind with grief.
The earth shivered in shock.
History was torn in two.
I stood at a distance,
my collar turned up,
like a murderer witnessing
a wrongful arrest.
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Poet Steve Turner imagines Jesus being born today “in a downtown motel marked by a helicopter’s flashing bulb…” Steve, rock biographer and journalist, has been writing poetry since the 1970s. He selected 12 of the poems he has written between then and now which are about Jesus. They range from the “animals, stables, stars and babies” of Christmas to the “mattress of stone” on Easter morning.
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