The body, languid, lowered from on high

lies heavy, cold, and formless on the earth.

The voice that drove the temple doves to sky

the kingly hope— lies strangled in its birth.

So all deceivers living in the dearth

of truth will ever be. And now instead

the rightful rulers: scribes and men of worth

become the cornerstone and take the head.

So somberly they now regard the dead

if only to assure their worried minds

the foolishness of ever nagging dread

that seems to stalk like sunrise from behind.

And yet they cannot shake the moment when

the liar vowed that He would rise again.