The King Sleeps

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.’