Thursday, 28 March 2013


based on Isaiah 53

Sacred herb, sacred king
We overlooked, fixated on more flowery growth.
Tender shoot, tender king,
Inches from the earth, we missed you,
Until they tore you down.

You did not dominate, nor push pretenders.
Submitted on cold mortar, bruise-broken by savage pestle
Your passion-darkened leaves you cede,
Beryline you bleed, bequeathing us the force of spring

Therein your power, Isaiah foresaw.
And thus with violent stripes,
Plucked and stripped
And crushed, you lie

Til carried on a Paschal breeze, your
Fragrance surges forth

Foliate third day, we await

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