Maundy Thursday

Daily dust over the jagged

stair steps of toes, between the cracked

skin; heels bruised by heat,

small toes stoned by cobblestone.

The wrong one is kneeling,

sprinkling water over the wounded,

a stream of fingers cleaning disciples' feet

as boils and blisters burst with new

covenant balm of blood and bread.

Good Friday

Holes as oval as this

lopsided earth, the black skin

of space filling in with red

against the spike that fastens

tendon to tree, bone to board,

skin and sin to sacrifice and servant.

In the human/divine pores: pain,

prophecy, the prodigal and unrepentant.

Their sounds pound the galaxies;

nowhere to walk or run

but Thy will be done.

Holy Saturday

Now unnailed,

calluses washed clean

with the converted Centurion's crying,

arch and ankle wrapped

for the new tomb hewn

from a rich man's cave,

the Savior-slave rots,

descends to the depths

of paradox, cleanses

each brimstone foot

of the dead and damned.

Easter Sunday

Alive,

he has abandoned the sepulchre.

Clover between his toes,

he hoes the graveyard garden

waits for the women

to come with scents and spices.

The unrecognized one,

afterwards he watches them run,

hysterically hollering hallelujah!