Persona Christi, in his threefold office,
Faces the House where the Pillar of Smoke
Made camp, his head by the nails in His feet,
His breath, pulled out of him
By Magisterial force, halts
In petrified ecstasy.
We hear the tailwind-ghosts of ages
Siren past, and a roaring rush;
The branches on Sinai on fire.
An odour of smoldering roses rounds
His shoulder, the haze enfolding a litany
Of salt and innocence.
We melt in the flames like Joan of Arc,
Obeisant as wax to heat; love to passion
And bend as the God-bled words toll.
Silence sweeps through those listening,
Supping. And back, out in the wasteland –
Hearts resume burning.