Who Can This Mortal Be?
We come flocking,
through the gates,
the press of us,
straggling,
swarming,
forming
the configurations of
some transcendental dance,
wired for celebration,
the waters of Babylon
long forgotten,
and the weeping, too.
We come bearing
the imprint of our
drawn and driven history,
seeking embodiment,
spurred by the significance
of Time and Place.
How we rejoice
to be united in Zion! -
the city that is and
the city that will be -
Next Year,
or the one after that.
This Year is different.
Something new tinges the air;
a sound that rings
and stings True.
The breath catches
with the ebb and flow
of the heart,
the blood surging
this way and that,
mind and spirit
following suit;
harmony and hostility
vying with each other;
it's difficult to know
where it's coming from.
Disorientation
has never been
a feature of the Feast.
But what is this? A sideshow?
Word is that some demented
Galilean thinks he's sent
by God to save us;
some say he's a prophet,
that miracles have been done
powerful enough to gall
the Temple hierarchy
and bring down curses
upon his regal-looking brow.
He's on an ass, of all things,
in keeping some might think.
The unbred youths
who follow him around
break into cheers.
The throng parts to make way;
the cloven Sea of Reeds
stirs within our psyche
and we are sparked to fire!
The ripple of Hosanna! swells
to a joyous tumult
and a fanfare of palm leaves
criss-crosses his path.
Who can this mortal be?
I only know that as he passes,
the very stones are singing
and my soul shivers in
the lacustrine depths
of his tender eye.
This Man is something else.
from JERICHO ROSE, Songs from the Wilderness ( poetry collection long in preparation).