the heart is too broken to shed any more tears
as it rends and bleeds to pieces;
the soul is too weary to resist knowing
the painful truth that lies before it;
the hands are too tired to pound the chest
or the floor or the wall in raging anguish.
Long past the tears, my dry heaves and shudders
are no longer really about you, Jesus
(as awful as your death scene was);
they're about every other death and every other failing
when the shadows depleted a beloved life,
when the doubts sliced at my knees,
when heartache stole my breath
and broke my body down.
Ah, Jesus. I'm sure you know:
there are too many skull places to witness,
too many crosses to endure.
I cannot weep anymore,