Passion Play




Today we wave palms

Or not—some churches

Seem to wait—in an

Enactment, a kind of



Passion starts, a brief

Season of


Intimacy overthrown,

Though given first by

The hand of God through

Child, prophet, and



One who was three


On Thursday, many

Christians will recall:

He names adherents

No longer only followers

But now as friends


Goes to prayer, Son of

Us, before taken away




Carried with will toward

Interrogation, torture


Final testimony that

Renders him seditious

To the crowd, numbered

Of all the world we



Beaten and burdened

With his means of execution

He is taken on the way

With escort disciplined


Through a mob that,

More and more, loses its

Human shape and



We mock, refute, then

Pierce his skin to leave

Him, a criminal, dying

With due scorn upon an

Iron tree




We wave palms,

Festive and endearing,

A likable rite that we



Later in the week we

Wrap his wounds in

Bearing our bound

Innocence into a tomb

Beside which stands


A stone door carved

With the world’s skill

Ready to be shut against

All consequence