The Pierced and Future King

A poem for Good Friday and Easter. With text and audio.

The Pierced and Future King

The wooden sword plunged in the rock of Golgotha

shook heaven and earth with the cut that it made.

The man who was hung on it, stretched on it, stuck to it

arms on the quillon, form draped down the blade,

His blood ran in rivulets, stained the whole grain of it,

blood and sweat pooled in dark puddles below;

His dying words, loving, then broke the hard strength of that

torture and murder the ages would know.

A spear-point thrust into the side of the dying man

water and blood gushed again to the earth,

Those gathered around were all watching and crying then,

‘specially the woman who held him at birth.

They all thought the end had come, all was done for this one,

hope was as dark as the bruises and sky;

Eased him down to the ground, wrapped him and took him,

to that rich tomb cut in the hillside nearby.

Retreated and sorrowful, dreading tomorrow full

knowing that all was lost since he was dead

They rolled a stone over it, closed the great door of the

cold and dark cavern that now was his bed.

Defeated and weeping still, silently creeping to rooms

where they kept themselves safe from the crowds.

Terror and grief beset couldn’t see what would yet

happen when dawn’s light split open the clouds.

But only one hand could withdraw the sword from that stone

Only one scar-handed man could be king,

The angels stood breathless, the living king death-less,

seized the sword’s hilt, drew from stone with a ring,

A ring of the dawn and a ring of the heavens, the clang of a

blade that won’t rust or decay!

The only true king he is, stinging sword, swinging sword

mowed down our death and our guilt that bright day!