it was as His body;
if the cells’ dissolution did not reverse, the molecules
reknit, the amino acids rekindle,
the Church will fall.
each soft Spring recurrent;
it was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled
it was as His Flesh: ours.
the same valved heart
that — pierced — died, withered, paused, and then
new strength to enclose.
analogy, sidestepping transcendence;
making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the
faded credulity of earlier ages:
let us walk through the door.
not a stone in a story,
but the vast rock of materiality that in the slow
grinding of time will eclipse for each of us
the wide light of day.
make it a real angel,
weighty with Max Planck’s quanta*, vivid with hair,
opaque in the dawn light, robed in real linen
spun on a definite loom.
for our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,
lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are
embarrassed by the miracle,
and crushed by remonstrance.