On a cross, resigned to the half world’s glory,
See him rise, the surrogate son and father.
Carryover prophecy and exquisite
Carve the stone below him in clapping darkness.
Still he’ll rise and twist in a cloud-borne transept,
Delegate authority with the whisper—
“Now it is finished.”
Wind-raked hill, the firmament torn and bleeding
In a shell that whistles, a polished vacuum
Holding back the howling of transformation: