(Easter Service)

Hung from wood,
a perennial harvest
fruits farmed
from viciousness
rooted in thy world:
seize them
from their
native soil
exhaust them
with unending toil
hang them
from every tree
hang them high
for all to see.
Drain their juices,
dry their skins
that all may know
what hell we’re in.
So before they’re eaten
save those bones
Their bloody syrup
may coat thy throne.
Spin the malice
thy vessel gold;
Fill thy chalice
with greed untold,
raise it in abject piety
thy thirst quenched
with murd’rous sobriety

Dr T.P. Wilkinson writes, teaches History and English, directs theatre and coaches cricket between the cradles of Heine and Saramago. He is author of Unbecoming American: A War Memoir and also Church Clothes, Land, Mission and the End of Apartheid in South Africa. Read other articles by T.P..