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Slow MoverJesus Wept
When Jesus drew near and saw the city,
He wept over it.
Not because the marble had cracked,
though it had.
Not because the columns trembled,
though they did.
Not because thunder gathered over the Potomac
and lightning stitched judgment
across the bruised sky.
He wept because the people had forgotten
the things that make for justice and peace.
He saw a cage raised like an altar.
He saw bodies offered up for entertainment.
He saw empire smiling gleefully from the front row,
wrapped in flags and gold and cameras.
He saw the powerful cheering
while the wounded became spectacle.
He saw Rome wearing a new suit.
The coliseum had crossed the ocean of the past
and found a home
under domes and monuments, white washed tombs,
beneath the watchful stone faces
of men who spoke of liberty
while the crowd screamed for blood.
And Jesus wept.
He wept for the fighter,
for the broken hand,
the swelling eye,
the mother watching,
the child learning
that violence can be sold
if the lights are bright enough.
He wept for the rulers
who called cruelty strength,
who mistook domination for glory,
who bowed before the oldest idol:
power without mercy.
He wept for Washington,
city of promises and wounds,
city of prayers and prisons,
city of pale stone
and scarlet history.
“If only you had known,” He whispered,
“even now, on this day,
the things that make for peace.”
But the roar was too loud.
The screens flashed.
The fists rose.
The empire cheered.
And somewhere above the cage,
a storm began to gather.
The lightning did not strike first.
The rain did.
A cleansing rain.
A sorrowing rain.
A baptism for a nation
that had confused freedom
with the right to devour.
And Jesus stood outside the gates,
tears on His face,
hands open,
heart broken,
still calling:
Come out of the cage.
Come down from the throne.
Come away from Rome.
Blessed are the merciful.
Blessed are the peacemakers.
Blessed are those
who refuse to be entertained
by another human being’s ruin.
And Washington did not yet understand.
So Jesus wept, tears falling in the rain.
Curt Johnson - Indie Genius
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