Many fields, many treasures, many pearls (One chosen). Here, fish netted, many kinds, But singularity is not the point, The point is, good are kept, and bad destroyed. Are these the gentle Galilean’s words? If so, a strange form of gentility: The angels throw the evil in the fire, And there is weeping and gnashing of teeth. O, how we twist and turn and rationalize, Assured Matthew was victim of his time, And heaven’s kingdom never need be forced, And “way that leads to life” is easy, smooth. Shall we amend, then, the Apostles’ Creed: “To judge the quick and dead”? This we don’t need.
I wish that everything could be like this— Sex, for instance. Love. To touch the blood Of someone else by reaching deep in kiss Made holier than kiss, by Jesus made
Into the resurrection of the body, And by the God for whom he is the son. I feel that I was born to do this duty, To place my hand inside of such a one
And gasp. I am the awe of the beloved, Who finds fulfillment in the commonplace, The one who hears the footsteps, sees the face, And weeps. True, some by their belief are moved. Not me. His blood is drying on my fingers. The scene of who he is, and was, still lingers.
I am imagining the soldier who drove the nails, clambering around or across the body, straddling and stretching to reach the hands, trying to avoid seeing the face and eyes, ignoring the eternal life line dividing the palms from fingers down to wrists, glimpsing the lips moving silently, mouthing words not meant for ears to hear; And I’m wondering how many keepers of reliquaries claim to own those nails, or perhaps even the letter home written by the nailer or some other soldier ordered later to do his duty and pull them out.