Good Friday (Viernes Santo)

By the cross we, too, are crucified with Christ; but alive in Christ. We are no more rebels, but servants; no more servants, but sons! "Let it be counted folly," says Hooker, "or fury, or frenzy, or whatever else; it is our wisdom and our comfort. We care for no knowledge in the world but this, that man hath sinned, and that God hath suffered; that God has made Himself the Son of Man, and that men are made the righteousness of God."

Frederic William Farrar

From my Dad’s book The celebrated afternoon (La tarde festejada). 

Good Friday (Viernes Santo)

Whilst the bell in the tower

announces the sadness of these days

of sorrow in the light of the liturgy,

my heart insists in the stubbornness

of feeling like a golden altar

where the melancholy officiates,

changed then into sweet hope

and made of love and warmth and poetry.

Ah, your eyes, your noble forehead,

the pure ray of sun that gilds your hair,

your hands at the service of love

when they examine the promising flesh

and your pure heart, tall and fraternal

counting the minutes that go by

until the inevitable possession

that started with the serpent of desire.

Forgive us for these days of wire girdle

for this love that sprouts in the profound

secret of two souls should deserve

your divine chastisement, Lord,

and even your hell.

A spark sets fire to my deepest being

and I feel weaker in these flames,

but also, Lord, I am sure

that this love that is killing me

will ascend to you as an offering

and you shall forgive me when my impulsive heart

breaks your law

because you will have proof that I have loved so much.

1987