The King Sleeps

The King Sleep

I will mine the agony of my God with a pick and a lamp. I will hew the stones and teach them to cry ‘Hosanna!’

I will fashion a tomb to bloom in a garden

I will fracture the face of Israel with a blow

That will become an earthquake 

To awaken the dead.

I will set my lamp beneath a splintered tree

I will close my ears against the forsaken cries of the Holy One 

I will seal my mouth against the acrid taste of blood

I will shut my eyes to hide the corpse that hangs above me. 

His eyes, not -closed. His body, not-clothed.

‘IT IS FINISHED!’

It’s over. 

God -

Adored, outpoured - passes over.

Numbed, beyond fear, I whisper a lullaby into the dark: 

‘Be still. Be still.

Night dawns.

Death dies -

The King sleeps.’