ZIBALDONE

| Naturally Curious |

Zibaldone is an Italian vernacular commonplace book. |  |  The word means a "heap of things" or "miscellany".  |  | 

A commonplace book is a depository for those miscellaneous heaps of things: words, pictures, reflections - all the good stuff. 


It is a little library of note. |  |  It is a scrapbook featuring items picked up along the highways and byways of life. 

| |  Welcome to Kristi's Zibaldone.  | | 

 
 
  • KM

Creation to Cross

I've been listening to the birds singing again. It got me to thinking: I wonder what Eden sounded like? So I started to imagine, and then a few other things cropped up. It starts as prose and ends in poetry. Movements from cacophony of creation to the silence of the cross. The one through whom all things are made is undone on the cross. joy! Creation leapt for responding in praise as the fullness of the earth rushed and gushed and roared and soared is now dark and silent and still. No praise here greets Jesus, only jeers. The one who promised victory over Israel's enemies, is himself now lanced, speared. Enemies truly may now be brought near. The one who revealed the Father is hanging exposed. In nakedness, derision and scorn does the light of the world hang torn. The one who walked with Adam and Eve is now held still The ecstatic static. From the vibrant noise of creation to the dereliction of the cross, the abundance of creation now to utter loss. The very trees he created, now a cruel tool. Alexamenos, you utter fool. From the harmony of things that be, to the destruction of that tree, chopped and mangled into cruciform shape splinters the Son, all for our sake. The tree of death a new tree of life instantiates. Creation that once shouted praise to God now screams 'Crucify!' A liar is set free, so the Innocent may die. From the many to the one, from much to meagre, no external abundance we now see but one person hanging upon the cursed, derelict tree. The light is now night, light of creation eclipsed earthen unity, rock is ripped apart shuddering and juddering, it quakes. Little does it know it is the true rock which now breaks. From the warmth of the sun to the cold, derelict cross, the second Adam looks directly at us.

'Father forgive them, they know not what they do.' He then moves his attention

to the one, then the two. 'Today you will be with me in paradise.' Criminal punished for his crimes, receives that very day

an inheritance

no decay. Immediate Irrevocable Achieved before his eyes The criminal will be with Jesus No longer despised. 'Behold your mother, this is your son.'

He whispers, his life nearly completely unspun. Mary looks upon him, the child she cannot cure

she understands his mission now

crying

she recalls

words about his dying the sword falls. come. I form a new family

by the blood of the tree you stand here as individuals (even criminals)

yet

united

in me.


'my God, my God, why have you forsaken me?'

Emptiness

The Father

he can

no longer

see. 'I thirst'

Desire

Fill that void

bitterness

vinegar

a cup of wrath

he drinks it all, but not as they could grasp. 'It is finished' The work is done. To the very end

he has come. And so he commends his spirit into his Father's hands to death he surrenders

yet even now commands. The cacophony of creation to the forsakenness of the cross, from joy to lament, life to regret. This movement is broken, an interruption, a change. from sorrow and sighing to the dawn of a new day death no more has the final say. From birth to death there is life once more, no more with Satan knocking on our door. The cross, the curse, the crucible of Christ.

Love Mercy

Justice meet

as John and Mary stare at his bare, cold feet. No more lost and lonely, but found and redeemed, such are the benefits of Christ, so greatly esteemed. But it is him. Only Him. In whom we now sing. New creation, new life as the multitude sing, blessed and holy and high - praise to the King. It starts as prose and ends in poetry. words woven in new ways singing of the suffering servant, the lamb who saves. No mind could imagine, no thought could comprehend, the way the Poet would save us from an unsightly end from prose of the garden to poetry of the cross, hearts no longer hardened

praise opened to us.

 

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