Poetry

He's Dead

by John Puckett 
04/06/23
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He's Dead

He’s dead! They said.
The end! They thought
Of he whom they
With silver bought.

A stone to seal,
A tomb secure.
A Roman guard,
The priests implore.

The end! They thought,
No more shall he
Disturb our rich
Tranquillity!

No more shall words
Nor miracles
Endanger all
Our rituals!

The Sabbath comes,
See! Nothing’s changed!
So much for all
His words and claims!

‘Tis true the veil
Is rent in twain.
Religion soon
Can mend again.

The Sabbath’s gone,
The ritual’s done,
Once more secure
First day begun.

Alive? What’s this?
Alive again?
So fools believe!
Wise priests disdain!

But see, you priests
Self-righteous fools,
‘Tis true! Where now
Your ridicule?

Where wisdom now?
Where riches? Might?
Where greatness? All
Have took their flight.

Disciples poor
Believers weak
With power this day
Of Jesus speak.

Still Christ today
Through simple faith
Himself reveals
To those who wait.

Would still today
Formalities
Soon fasten Christ
To cruel tree?

Nail him they might
In lifeless creed.
To faith he lives
Triumphantly.