Here is an old poem of mine for Easter. Enjoy–and don’t forget to read the story I posted on Thursday, about what would happen to the Inklings if the Germans won WWII!
I was certain we had wrapped His body
tightly with embalming rites. My hands
recall the chill flesh firmly swathed. Today
we stand in silence, gazing at the bands
of linen still outlining how He lay.
There, that point, was where His feet were crossed.
A sickness rises with the memory
of nail-wounded ankles. There the cloth,
along that fold, had robed His legs; that stain,
the spear-thrust side we staunched. There the shroud
enfolded his strong shoulders. The mystery
is this: those humps and lines of linen sank,
just folded down on nothing. Here the head-
cloth shows an absent face. But where is He?