Holy Saturday, 2011
I wondered darkly at that shroud
That covers one and all from birth
And separates us from the crowd:
The multitude long passed through death.
We living few and worldly-wise
Spare little thought on our demise.
So eager to forget the fact
Of our inevitable doom,
The mention of some artifact
Annoys a cocktailed living room:
“A forgery, you know, it’s certain;
Probably da Vinci’s curtain.”
But later looking at that cloth,
The linen patched by careful hosts,
Amid the streaks of Roman wrath
Where Death in triumph vainly boasts,
I saw the figure of our end:
One death our birth, His wounds ours mend.
How somber was that Sabbath day
When God lay silent in a tomb!
How still the home where Mary stayed
Praying alone in a darkened room,
Remembering all He’d spoken of,
The life to come, His reign of love.
