The Bridge
a poem for Good Friday
The Bridge
What does it mean
that I love the bridge best?
That I only start to listen
when the melody loses its way?
The chorus coaxes
even the most reticent to sing
the verse’s steadiness pulls
like a puppy on a leash.
What does it mean
that it all feels hollow
without the bridge?
The chords grow restless,
a key we did not expect,
a dissonance not authorized,
the bridge begs—
Is this the song
we thought we knew?
Loving the bridge is
setting out for the tomb
while it’s still dark,
a desperate faith
that the song isn’t over,
longing for a life that is more
than chorus-verse-chorus
enough to awake,
to walk into the darkness alone.
How far I have wandered
from my safe, familiar melodies:
the bridge, a father, running
across the wilderness of my own making,
calling my name.
What does it mean
that I love most
the moment
before the chords
tumble home?
What does it mean
that I want a miracle
that is more than a morning?
That I want Love that’s a bridge—
One who keeps singing to me,
even in the dark?
Is this the song we thought we knew?
Been sitting with thoughts like this lately. Both the disappointment and the unexpected joy of God being so other than us. Such a beautiful reflection. ❤️
Thank you for sharing this. Lovely, lovely perspective from the heart of a musician. This line especially resonated: "longing for a life that is more than chorus-verse-chorus"