In crocus fashion, sunlight-wise,
The Body of Our Lord
Slipped through the stone-bound sepulchre,
Streamed through the soldier’s sword.
Though stripped and whipped and spat upon,
Sundered with nail and spear,
Thus did our dust in Him prevail
At the robin-time of the year.
Albeit our interval under earth
Must needs much longer last,
Let there be always ready the roll
Of drums and the trumpet blast.
With bones ablaze and flesh aflash
And hair set flying free,
So shall I come to you, loved ones,
So shall you come to me.