I Don't Know Why

I'm glad you ask,
but I don't have an answer.
I know you want a reply,
a resolution,
because I do, too.
Anything I could say would fall flat,
disappoint.

Why didn't you answer Christ
on the cross?
He asked, but there was no answer.
Why did you forsake him?
The only answer was the crying,
weeping,
of his mother at his feet.
The sun went dark
and all was still.
Three days later,
we still don't know,
a forgotten question
lingering in the dark,
crushed under the stone at the tomb.

Why did you forsake me?
A mother's mourning as an answer,
a father's last words, "I love you."
Why did you forsake me?
A sister's searching,
a friend's letter, "I miss you."
Why did you forsake me?
A husband's hug,
a favorite hymn, "It is Well."

Did you forsake me
in the tears of a mother,
the words of a father,
the journey of a sister
the letter of a friend
the embrace of a husband
the prose of a hymn?

Hold me close, O God,
and do not forsake me.
Be not far from helping me,
from the words of my groaning.