Good Friday morning. I climbed
the spiraling, creaking stairs
to the organ loft,
young and inexperienced,
I needed to practice
for the evening service.
I would improvise on
“O Sacred Head Now Wounded”,
but the possibilities
of that mournful melody eluded me.

As I kicked away the wooden blocks
under the organ bench
so my feet could reach the pedals,
a bleak morning sun
threw flecks of diffused colour
on the richly carved organ front.
A cross appeared above the keyboards,
the shadow of the crossed timbers
in the stained-glass windows.

My eyes fastened on that cross,
and suddenly I saw the body of Jesus
writhing in agonizing grief.
His pain-narrowed eyes looked down
on the black and white keys,
then centered on me.

Looking up to the cross,
my fingers began to wander
aimlessly over the keys, until
a shuddering wave of grief
signaled a single melody
from heart to hands.

As it returned from its journey
along the vaulted ceiling
I added a counter-tune
and suddenly, outside my own will,
the organ seemed to sing by itself,
only using my hands and feet
as necessary tools.

When the sun hid behind dark clouds,
dissolving the sharp outline
of the cross, my consciousness
– which had seemed to float
with the lamenting melody
over multi-coloured pews –
returned, and I sensed
a Presence
behind me.

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