Anxiety is a free fall from too-high-up.
Jetting toward the rock-hard.
Flailing in a grab-nothing way.
Screaming in a make-no-sound panic.
Anxiety is Good Friday.
Not in a Sunday’s-coming hope.
In a hidden-through-Jerusalem grief.
Good Friday is dark friday. 
Black Friday.
Nothing-good-about-this-day Friday.
Good Friday is mindful
Of bitter bile drowning love,
Of patience unpracticed 
And mercy ungiven.
Good Friday is dark hearts 
And dirty hands. 
It’s washing and washing
But still, the stain screams guilt.
Anxiety knows the wage of sin.
It’s walking to the gallows,
Though I walk through the shadow of death
I am still scared because it’s all my doing.
Good Friday is wilting hearts
And sunken souls.
But a hyacinth I believed long dead
Is growing purple among weeds, 
Pushing up through hard ground
With aroma sweet as hope.
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