When it was evening, there came a rich man…
	And asked for the body of Jesus.
	Matthew 27

They were bringing out the dead
from the battlefields, the execution chambers,
where they lay, waiting to be claimed.
One sprawled in the dust,
the spear still in his side, another
was crumpled on the beach
beside the victor’s ship.
Some had hung on gibbets and crosses, each
the object of an outraged sister or
frantic father, a traveler who now
sits in the warden’s office
with his petition,
signed by the governor.
Mothers and lovers
wait at the crossroads,
haunt the tombs,
watching for the body,
dreading the empty grave, the deep
that will not stop its roaring
until the dead are buried.

Things go unnoticed around here
while we do the important stuff
the singing praying sermonizing baptizing.
We don’t read the instructions
want to get on with it insert the batteries
push the button watch the thing light up.
Script stage directions steps one two three are all
fine print we think, or don’t until
we find ourselves at home
watching rain soak the garden
and notice that the screen has gone dark.
When is it that we turn to face
the back of the church?
Do we stand or sit at the Psalm?
Is there anything at all
about bowing as the cross
makes its leisurely progress?
What words are to be said
while earth is thrown on the coffin
and who was it after all
who was supposed to meet the body
and go before it to the grave?