Good Friday

The weather is weeping
For the Lord.
Tennis matches and bowls
Are in abeyance.
Over in the church
The crowd bows its head
And shares
His anguish,
crying with Him:
'Forgive them Father;
They know not
What they do'.
The clouds clear,
Racquets are waved,
White garbed bowlers
Raise a cheer.
The game goes on.
'Consummatus est'.
Your love flows out
Touching them.
Unaware
They wonder
At the sudden brightness
Of the sun.