Dying in Bethany

Photo by Bruno van der Kraan on Unsplash

Would you return to Bethany

if I promised to die there?

Would it matter if I had been buried,

not four days,

but forty years?

Would it matter if my coffin was made of water?

Would it matter if my shroud was woven with air?

And I can see you pause,

I can feel you stare,

place my faithless body

on Eli’s chair.

And I can hear your silence,

I can breathe your prayer.

To the heavens above,

to the earth below,

to the falling hail,

and to the moss emerging from beneath the snow.

An invitation to witness

that the cave is now empty,

that the sin was atoned,

that the dust of the departed

is now fluttering, wandering, aware.

Would you return to Bethany

would you remain in Bethany

if I promised to die there?