Poem for Easter Sunday
By John Dennison
Self-made, perhaps; definitely wealthy,
with a seat on the council, and a plot set aside on the hill;
but when it came to it, Joseph of Arimathea
could offer only a freshly dug hole:
his tomb, his anticipated end
now made the corpse-house of all hope.
The dark. The stone. Poor gifts for a friend
above all friends. And yet, it turns out, so right:
all matter sings, the dark itself upends
to welcome in the flesh the Light of Light,
this breathing the full-bodied house of hope,
making a throne-room of the rich man’s empty slot.
Sing to yourself; pile your wealth in a heap
and burn it and you along with it; but you cannot
out-give the Giver. For he has made this ripe
world his love’s language, the manger his cot.
