Holy Saturday

Holy Saturday

Does he lie there, in tomb’s stillness, 

              and think?

Does he roll over in his grave

               replaying the conversations that killed him?

Does his sweaty stench, trapped in death’s wrappings, 

            raise his gorge?

Does an angel sit beside him, even now,

            whispering the abracadabra

                      of resurrection? 

cross posted on In Praise of Sophia