Masterstroke

May 2004

Shortly after watching The Passion, this poem came to mind:

Masterstroke

Blue-black iron through ashen wrist
Impaled in gray-brown wood
Crimson tracks and crimson drops
Now drying, browning blood

Raven locks frame death-white face
Blue-gray in early night
Dark, glazed eyes, eternal lights
No longer shine with life

Color-drained, violence-stained
An image is invoked
No artist’s pen could e’er contend
With such a Masterstroke


Rolling rays of rising sun
Kissing golden hill
Wide in awe the midnight maw
Of grave lies silent, still

Blue-black hair, face shining fair
He strides out of the dark
Smooth brown limbs alive again
Yet nails have left their mark

Glory-crown’d, life resounds
In Him who death’s chains broke
No artist’s pen could e’er contend
With such a Masterstroke!