Pentecost

the smell of broken bread
lingering in that upstairs room,
their hearts shredded like the
Temple’s veil, surely it was over.
but rather than knocking gently,
that holy wildfire,
that unrestrained wind,
that grace which unties
tongues of the shyest,
came barreling in
tumbling them out
into the empty streets.
and still,
in that first breath
a new-born takes,
in those songs for justice
in forgotten neighborhoods,
in whispered hopes
at gravesides in death’s chill,
she comes -
ready to push us out
of apathy-shuttered lives,
with good news sparking off us,
ready to ignite grace
in the world.

© 2025 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman