This was a poem I wrote sitting on a bench by Zion's Church on a Sunday morning reflecting on Dietrich Bonhoeffer's 1932 confirmation class.
"The Cost"
When Christ calls,
he invites you
to come and die with him.
And resisting,
you died, dear brother,
a martyr's death.
That is what we remember,
you raging
against the marching stormclouds
that swept all
into blackness and horror.
But this resurrection morning,
as the saints gather
once again,
I remember the price
of kindness and care,
of a love poured out
upon the least of these.
The selfish climb
was there before you,
but here you were
among the children of the poor.
This is less and misremembered,
but there is a dying here.
This, too, a martyr's death:
the expenditure of tenderness
given and sacrificed.
Less a death, but a life
that counted and paid
the cost.
