He lay bound,
bound tightly, red cord thrice wound,
neatly tied with flourish; found
his life pooled round,
pooled round rock, stand and ground.

Turtle-dove swiftly beats
wings in frightened fleets.
Caged by poor reed,
poor song, poor lead.

Little lamb beheld
holiest by holy held;
saw with faith,
faith fulfilled.
Then his life was spilled.

Hard and poor
hands held forth,
with fluttering heart,
fluttering wing.

Ephod took and held high,
then with holy hands
spilled heart upon the rock,
upon the stone,
upon that ancient stone so newly hewn.
Then infinite infant eyes
saw Rachel where she lies.

© rl busséll 2018

Turtle Dove sketch © rl busséll 2018