At the Last Passover

                  Why yes, now that you mention it, when

I came to Jerusalem that year

I stayed just over there with a friend,

But I ate all my meals over here

In this very inn. It is so near by.

I was eating and I heard a loud cry,

Then a clatter, shouts and yells, and fear

Coming from the street and through the sky.

I did not bother with my breakfast,

For I could tell it had reached the stair.

The streets are hilly and steps went past

The inn. They would have to pass by there.

I knew they were on steps by a thump,

A steadily rising bump-bump-bump,

As if something dragging hard to bear.

And a man moving, bent in a slump.

I went outside and stood with the mob

Also watching the procession.

Expecting to hear the bearer sob

From the thick wood’s weighty oppression,

I was surprised he could take a stride

(With his all beaten and bloody hide)

And yet by some inner obsession

He did. It’s very hard to describe.

On the man’s head was a crown of thorn,

Which made his hair and beard red with blood.

Yet in his eyes, so sad and forlorn,

Where you would expect hate, I saw love,

Though they abused him, and left him torn,

Though they mocked him and spat in scorn,

Though caked he was in sweat and with mud,

A man of sorrow. A man to mourn.

I followed after them up a mount

Called Golgotha. I think the name means

Place of the skull and you cannot count

The crucifixions held at that scene.

Now I know the fate of this poor soul,

To be nailed hand and foot to the pole,

Along with two bandits. What a team.

What was his transgression of the law?

They slipped the cross into its socket,

After hammering nails through his bones.

They pounded in a wedge to lock it

In place, then sat resting on the stones.

They hung a signboard above his head.

“This is the King of the Jews”, it read.

The air echoed with jeers, tears and moans.

“It is finished,” cried he and was dead.

“It’s this strange darkness -- he cried in fear,”

Said one. “Is he dead?” asked another.

A soldier pierced his side with a spear,

There was a sad gasp from his mother,

As blood and water washed o’re the man.

This was the Son of God, as I stand!

Rain poured. The earth began to shutter.

At that moment a change was at hand.

This was all that I had seen of it.

They took the body to a garden

And sealed it in a burial pit,

Guarded by a group of soldier men.

And I thought that would be the last time that

I heard of him. I returned and sat

And slept, and after three days again

Was startled by an overheard chat.

It seems these two women had gone down

To the tomb to anoint him alone.

The soldiers were scattered all around.

The stone was far removed, as if thrown.

And when they peered into the fission,

An Angel told them he had risen.

This is what I have known.

To believe it is your decision.








Illustration from Stories of the Passion (Maestà, verso) - by DUCCIO di Buoninsegna