In these tens of minutes remaining
of the Friday Sun’s diminishing
beneath the horizon,

the tree is lowered towards the shadow
that, until now, was stetching longer and further
over the hillside as the Sun reddened unto evening.

The tree, eclipsing even its own shadow,
from behind the flint-set face whose final frozen stare
was fixed toward the grave–hanging from the tree,

now holds aloft his gaze heavenward.

His most loving mother,
through the night and day of her pierced heart’s tears–
pouring forth the maternal grace of all she kept in it,

immaculate voice become low
like the trembling
of a cello’s tenor,

keeping her gaze turned on her son
whose lacerations and blood are, in his hour,
now surfaced for all else to see,

commands the Arimathean, Joseph,
“Remove the nails slowly
so as not to damage the corpse.”