Here is the last of these old poems 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.
The whiteness of the cloth and of His skin,
His body’s after-image–piéta–
pressed cold and eerie on the daytime dark
when our fumbling fingers shrouded Him.
The heavy scent of myrrh and aloes drips
unholy incense in my memory:
it stank of death, dark brown and oily,
oozing past the fragrant linen strips.
That black afternoon brought Sabbath dread,
yet somehow in its aching mists, this dawn
brought us a strange desire to see the dead.
I went, I looked, I saw and understood:
the linen lay still wrapped as He had lain,
the little cloth no longer swathed His head.