Vikas Sharma (contemporary), “Hooded Crow”
Courtesy Pinterest

A hooded crow sits on the cross-beam
Of the cross on which He dies
But does not peck Messiah’s eyes

Instead it pauses for the tremor
The shadow that slides towards the hill
Perhaps this end is not forever

Crows are connoisseurs of death
It is their business and their science
Although as beasts they have no conscience

It is a scavenger in full
Perhaps it knows the spirit waits
And so the gleaner hesitates

It does not strike the helpless flesh
And this although the end is done
Is seen by the centurion

Who has seen many forms of death
But never did plain nature show
Such stillness in a hungry crow



Nathan Greene (contemporary), “The Roman Centurion”
Courtesy Nathan Greene

What do we have in common
With One who made the cosmos?
Scripture says that Moses
Spoke with the Creator
As one man to another

The man who pressed the point
Of his spear in the side of God
What did he dream that night
In his billet, in his bed?
Did he dream that God was dead?

If we are born to die
We must wonder why—
It seems a futile thing
Into the world to bring
A live thing bent to death

The blade was dry black-red
With the bleeding of the dead
And yet when the soldier dreamed
The man still lived, it seemed,
And spoke

And then he woke