Twelve
Twelve.
Those who walked in sandals,
tattered,
over dust and stone.
A betrayer among them.
A denier as well.
One would die by his own hand,
spilling his ransom like blood.
Another would weep
when the rooster crowed,
and a time of emptiness
was ushered in.
Ten who stood in a room,
afraid of every shadow,
yet to witness
the failure of death
to gain victory,
unsure in their hearts
what the women had seen.
One,
absent,
whose doubt caused him to touch,
to impale his fingers in the wounds,
before embracing faith.
Twelve.
Those who had tossed nets
where they were directed,
into an empty sea.
Those who collected twelve baskets
of bread and fish,
after five loaves and two fish
had nourished the masses.
Those who had seen the blind see,
the lame walk,
sores heal,
a prostitute sob.
copyright 2025 - Donald P James Jr
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