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At Golgotha, The Day After . . . That
I have to pause. I cannot just pass by.
Stay with me for a moment. That upright
beam, in the middle, is stained---still---with blood:
His. All my tears have fallen in a flood,
so much so that the ducts have gone plumb dry.
When Romans are inclined to crucify,
their victim is too damaged, too far gone,
to rise again. Mourning is for the night,
the Psalmist said: but, at tomorrow's dawn,
what joy can be expected?---though the sky
may bear the Sprng's nearly supernal light.
But yet, the utter wrongness of it all
will lay upon the new day like a pall;
all over the new season like a blight.
Starward
[jlc]
