Were you there?
And they fossick ’til they find a stone shaped to their grief
And they scatter rose petals, soft with perfume, onto a reeking cross,
And they wonder at their champion’s disgrace
And weep their tears into a shroud. And the people survey the bleakest of days
And seek to understand a God of such device,
And there is silence Because the sadness is too raw.
Even then, mystery returns;
Tenderness suffusing suffering’s face,
For this act of love, stronger than darkness and any stone fashioned for a tomb,
Shines with stained glass radiance,
Illuminates in gold, And blazes with voices anthem-high.
And the people study the scars of their own living
And the congealed sweep of their own plans,
And wet with tears for themselves and a grieving world,
Depart, strangely soothed in hope.
Ashleigh Lower