A Prairie Easter

The Holy Harvest

Passover lambs
white and undefiled, number
three hundred thousand (a single days
sacrifice),
slain all between the ninth
and the eleventh hours. The paschal lambs,
the paschal Lamb bleed together.

One hundred twenty four miles
west of Laramie, where the trail crosses
the Platte, wagons, loaded,
in close file, draw at the river
for Sabbath
to marvel at the weight of sinless

sacrifice that saved the world
by love -- a sacrament
of broken bread, of water,
in remembrance of broken body,
blood, and tears,
where neither spire, or parish church,

nor organ churns litanies: but men
with stiff chaffed flesh,
whose awkward fingers lift
the cup to lips to slake a thirst
for immortality, ignite a radiance
against the Second Death.

The burden is lifted
from Golgotha. Sleep on now.
Take your rest. The curse
is lifted. Seeds of death sown daily
in the dark coagulum of pericardial blood
become a holy harvest.