When you think of it,
don’t think
of the soft down of angels
haloing him
in golden sunburst of seraphim.
Think how human he was,
already broken by the betrayal
of close friends
who never understood,
never kept vigil
or came to see
the rusty spikes
break the small bones
of both palms,
the cuneiform of his anointed feet;
never came to hear
his valedictory,
or help answer
one hollow, holy question.
When you wonder about it,
think of his life as cipher,
his blood for your blood,
his words for your flesh,
until your wonderings touch upon
something as human as he is
in this graceful, green world,
in the meat of your own holy hands.
Good Friday 2006: Contemplating the Crucifixion (version 2)
I doubt
the soft down of angels
haloed him
in golden sunbursts of seraphim.
I imagine him already broken
by the betrayal of close friends
who never understood,
never kept vigil
or came to see
the rusty spikes
break the small bones
of both palms,
the cuneiform of his anointed feet;
never came to hear
his valedictory,
or help answer
one hollow, holy question.
His life ciphers:
his blood for your blood,
his words for your flesh,
until your wonderings touch upon
something as human as he is
in this graceful, green world,
in the meat of your own holy hands.