Will you dance on a Sunday?

She is no Messiah.

That complex is not one of hers.

She is no daughter of God. And yet.

Maybe, this Easter, resurrection is on the cards?

Has she been brave

Letting the words fall out?

Maybe.

Will the truth be heard

So that the voices of the pharisees and haters can be shaken off?

Or will they carry on strangling

In the solitude they prefer?

Until they win

And she can breathe and speak her truth no more.

One thing is for sure.

She shall not any longer aid that process by trying to hold her breath.

She is actually good, tilted or not.

No more show.

She cannot wait for those who

Hold the power

To push back that boulder and help her escape.

Waiting is no longer an option.

And of course the obvious irony:

That the boulder

Is partly of her own making.

Gathering up the excrement

That others have thrown at her

Over time

Like a scarab

Until she has become trapped by it.

Unable to escape.

Even pushing it up the same hill

Over and over

In some perverse morphing of Sysiphus and Groundhog.

But hell is not other people.

No one else can push the burden away

Until she is ready to accept

That it needs to go.

And then the helpers will be there.

To see her rise again.

Dance again

And fling off that devil on her back.

To smile more

Talk less

And in so doing

Say more

Love more

Save more.

But before she saves someone else

Save her.

She requests forgiveness where she has sinned

Maybe, not least, for these shocking allusions

And offers forgiveness

To those willing to repent and change.

She is worthy of redemption.

Resurrection.

She is no Messiah.

That complex is not one of hers.

She is no daughter of God. And yet.

Maybe, this Easter, resurrection is on the cards?

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