Poetry

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Knowledge of the Holy
Is bred in bone and marrow,
It sleeps, while hid in darkness
It keeps, well hid in darkness
Though flesh withers like the flower
These bones remember long

A scattering of bones
Ungathering of bones
Holy knowledge cold,
enfolded
Entombed for untold aeons
A vale unveiled in prophet’s dream
These bones remember long

Age-bruised bones lying in ruins
What is lying, what is truth?
Pilate’s everlasting existential question

Is it personal?
Unacknowledged and assumed
Idly worshipped, groping in darkness, a grasping after wind?

Or is He Personal.
Enlightening unlit, unwitting gloom?
By His grave wounds the grave is wounded
The shroud unwound, death undone

Can these bones live again?
O Lord thou knowest
These bones remember long

The breath of God stirs the waters
Summoning to Resurrection
Irresistible the rising,
Rising up and living
Bones clattering ancient patterns
These bones remember long

Surging life pours flesh again
upon Ezekiel’s scaffold
The right uprights
The veridical is vertical
Truth slumbers, but cannot die
These bones remembered long
But now knowing lives again

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