Devotion for Holy Saturday

The Lathe

By Chris King

You lay so still that night,
on your nuptial slab, noble as granite,
Though not a thing inert –
Could any tomb contain your passion?

Rather, an unmoving lover,
A blade crosswise a spinning lathe,
While the world’s crooked timber,
Contracting round Jerusalem,

Yielded, that Sabbath,
To the execution of your design,
(Your mother gazing on,
Only she knowing the extent of it)

And turned as the sun sank past the west,
Swung on through the starless pit,

Until, come dawn, a goose-down light
Fell soft upon the new creation,
A freshly dew-scattered Eden
Where your bride pines for your kiss.