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.