The King Sleeps
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.’
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