Pentecost

Jesus was not swallowed by,
But swallowed up a whale.
And then, the sea thing conquered,
Climbed a mast, become a sail.

And he billowed out so wide
That he became the shroud of sky;
And, sum of stars, capsized,
That all the world might die.

And is he dead?
World never knew before such emptiness.
And is he dead? Our only one?
The night wind answered "Yes."

Then lonely Mary, full of grief,
Turned face away from dawn,
And stumbled down the hillside west,
And wandered sightless on.

Until she came to bitter sea,
And sat down there to die.
All before her seemed a flood,
Such flood was in her eye.

And is he dead?
One perfect son, the diamond of the West?
And is he dead? Our only one?
Ocean answered: "Yes."

And Mary saw her life in sand,
And sat upon a stone;
And, hard as mother's lot is hard,
Prayed God to take her home.

And as she looked unseeing out,
Where waves wet tent of night,
She dreamed, where vision blends with hope,
A sail, a nonce thing white.

And does he live?
So small it seemed a foolish thing to pray.
And does he live? A sea-blown dove
Appeared above the spray.

And the sail that billowed out then bore
The image of her son.
Strangely old, yet strangely calm
As Galilee at dawn.

And the sail, in growing nearer,
Grew to fill the Western sky,
With golden sun transfixed in one,
Pale moon in the other eye.

And does he live?
The stone awoke as Virgin rose to pray.
And does he live?
Stone grew a church
That Pentecostal day.

-- Stephen K. Roney