The Last Lamb

 

It always seemed the lamb should die at night

with dark like curtains, solemn, wrapped around,

while pools of crimson gathered on the ground.

Instead he died in milling crowds—and light.

The priests were quick; their bloody hands a flight

of flashing knives. The bleating sheep! The sound

of death that pinched my beating heart and drowned

for just a space, the noise and blood and fright.

And then: a shadow…flung across the sky

that dimmed the shine and brightest part of day.

Enfolding darkness, solemn, wrapped in grey.

A quaking earth, a final, dying cry.

And yet it pierced my darkness like a ray:

the final Lamb that I would ever slay.

 

 

Note–The reference to “Good Thursday” in the tagline below is not accidental. See the following article for an explanation: Three Days and Three Nights or Not

 

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