Between the tumult of crucifixion
and the diapason of resurrection
that bar of absolute silence.

Were they in Time at all
those hours in the rock-hewn tomb,
the body wrapped in linen cloth
the stone, the pregnant gloom?

Some who came after believed
that was his conquering hour
preaching to prisoned souls in Hell
his majesty and power.

Others who followed near
a different secret guessed
when fell on ravaged limbs a balm
of more than earthly rest:

If, not yet risen, he stirred,
cried, ‘Father, it is done,’
there came a voice beyond all worlds,
‘Sleep, my beloved Son.’

Poems of the Spirit