A meditation on an image: Christ,
His body cold and dead—yet strangely clean,
While inexplicably the crown of thorns
Remains upon His brow—brought to his tomb
By Joseph, Nicodemus. One holds him
By the knees, the other by the armpits. See
The body sag between the two. The Lord’s
Limp fingers lightly drag along the ground.
The weight of death.
The Savior died.
How easy to forget the Word was flesh.
The Word had pulse, heartbeat, would breathe, would bleed
Out, suffocate, surrender soul. A corpse.
There was no hope on Saturday. No pulse.
Just a body torn, like curtains, like lambs.
The artist won't allow us to ignore
Bare facts. His image seizes eyes, grips hearts.
The eyes must see such things, the heart believe.