this bag of words,
coins for a potter's field. Whose
do they bear? God is diminished
by all our explanations: we have made
our own image, scourged him
with the whips of our doctrines, wrapped
beaten body in our purple prose,
frozen his agony in window glass
the cross a trinket. In all we know
there is no analogue for
three hours on a Friday afternoon
a scaffold the eternal word
hung silent, staring, gape-mouthed, perfectly dead.
potters field Bought by Judas with his thirty pieces of silver cf Matthew 27:7.