A Poem for Holy Saturday, Revised

Last year I wrote a poem for Holy Saturday, with a warning that it was likely not ready for public consumption. This Holy Saturday I've sanded it down a fair bit, and while it is still raw, it gets at something desperate that this day is all about in the cycle of Holy Week.


Oh God, I miss you.

I feel it heavy this morning.

I thought I could always come back –
walk away for a thousand miles and turn around
to see you keeping pace in secret.

Always with me.

I cannot feel your breath on my neck and
I cannot hear your footsteps.

There are no footprints in the sand.

When did you turn back?

All I find are questions now.

Is this heart-hole some holy proof?

Philosophy makes me seasick–
I just miss you.

You were always a shoreline.
Unmovable.
Tideless.

I could swim back to you
any day I wanted.

If I had wanted.

I cannot see the shore now.

I don't remember how to swim.

I have become afraid
of water.

Living water–
That’s what you offered me.

Living words.

I bought a new Bible last summer, 
but I lost it a month later. 

I am losing.

Where in the hell are you?

Every day is Holy Saturday–
A promise
barely visible
through the fog of loss

The clouds have drunk the seas
Release a rain that smells like home

To wet
To wash
To forget
To remember

The ground is thirsty

Oh God, I miss you


Dave Von Bieker

Dave Von Bieker, 11243 85 St NW, Edmonton, AB, T5B 3C6, Canada

Dave Von Bieker lives at the intersection of art, faith, hope and love. He has 2 great kids, a fantastic wife, and a mostly good dog. He plays red guitars and drives red cars.