That was the day they killed the Son of
On a squat hill-top by Jerusalem.
Zion was bare, her children from their
Sucked by the dream of
Clean through the gates.
The very halt and
Had somehow got themselves up to the hill.
After the ceremonial preparation,
The scourging, nailing, nailing against the wood,
Erection of the main-trees with their burden,
While from the hill rose an orchestral wailing,
They were there at last, high up in the soft spring day.
We watched the writhings, heard the moanings,
The three heads turning on their separate
Like broken wheels left spinning.
Round his
Was loosely bound a crown of plaited
That hurt at random, stinging temple and
As the pain swung into its envious circle.
In front the wreath was gathered in a
That as he gazed looked like the last stump
Of a death-wounded deer's great antlers.
Who came to stare grew silent as they looked,
Indignant or sorry.
But the hardened
And the hard-hearted young, although at
From the first morning, cursed him with one curse,
Having prayed for a Rabbi or an armed
And found the Son of God.
What use to
Was a God or a Son of God?
Of what
For purposes such as theirs?
Beside the cross-foot,
Alone, four women stood and did not
All day.
The sun revolved, the shadows wheeled,
The evening fell.
His head lay on his breast,
But in his breast they watched his heart move
By itself alone, accomplishing its journey.
Their taunts grew louder, sharpened by the
That he was walking in the park of death,
Far from their rage.
Yet all grew stale at last,
Spite, curiosity, envy, hate itself.
They waited only for death and death was
And came so quietly they scarce could mark it.
They were angry then with death and death's deceit.
I was a stranger, could not read these
Or this outlandish deity.
Did a
Indeed in dying cross my life that
By chance, he on his road and I on mine?
