The sleeper, tautened in the creeping chill Of darkness, split a snore, and muttered When a sneaking, ill-clad comrade tried to snatch A ragged mantle from his dusky thighs.

God in the Flesh loomed toward them, lonely In His ardent pain. The bitter breeze Expired through the olive trees. The stony soil, Baptized with blood-like sweat of agony,

Flexed to erupt Earth’s outrage in the earthquake Delivery of dead from death. The God-man Spoke to animate the heedless sleepers; For already neared the guttering torches

Of treachery: within Gethsemane appeared Demonic shapes and shadows of the law… The shuffling mob, chagrined by useless swords And cudgels, in silence watched the dastard kiss

And marked the glib “Hail, Master!” Amazed, They sprawled before his dauntless answers; The damning “I am he!” of confrontation Exposed the craven horror of their hate.

The rabble groveled snakelike on the ground While unseen echelons of angels lowered, Waiting but a word, a whim, to purge The world with waves of flame, and crumble

It like ash. The heart of time contracted, While edged, impending, the menace of eternity Poised, pulseless...till a rash and futile sword Slashed off an ear, and the drama of the Cross advanced.

MERLE MEETER