This stone, white-chiseled, held Him;
rock, Whereon was never body laid.
This cavern heavy still with myrrh
And chrysalised this Difference by
Night. Wherefore this tomb is virgin.
conceived between its iliac, crests
The change that Mary hid before.
By night in darkness in the cloke
That there was thick as folds
Within unlit recesses of the hips
Was force, was life, was death
An hour another moment waxen
Warmed with stir
of whispers from
The lung, and moistness wringing
From the tongue. The palms that
Dropped their diamonds afresh
To scintillate upon the stone,
And eyes not seeing now, but
Only to be seen, which lost a
light by being shaped of it;
The very resurrected
Flesh held thus
In bondage and preserved from
Fission, instant, white, by power
And servitude of light.
magnitude of snows
At dawn where never mountains were;
The truth discarnate and entire
discernible or known
Emergent from the wheeling stone
In cataracts of fire; and
Yet in shapliness
With locks that stirred in wind
And held their dew-like wings
Of birds which fly
The night; that she might know her
Risen Lord and kneel in briars at his feet.
So did he walk uncertainly
As one might walk in fathom
Depth beneath a mirror-laden sea;
felt the drag of surfaces and stars
Above His bent and drowned head;
So spake, so bade her touch Him not,
risen from the dead.
All things made one; the screens
Of bone and tapestries of
Rewoven and assumed in godly shape.
Alone of love, of love alone that
a towering and a tender
Eye looked on her weeping and did
Staunch it instantly.
But haste! My angels yet do light
The sepulcher that held my night.
The little fowl of rock and tree
Do stir, and presently
Will start their foraging and song.
Make haste my Mary, seek out them
Who still attend upon the grief
And tell the Christus now doth walk
In peace and majesty
That they may turn their steps to me.