by Jeffrey Essmann

The Word made flesh is silent now
Its dying prophecy a tortured groan.
It seems the final mystery’s how
The Son of God could die so quite alone.
Outside the guards their sentry hold
With Roman self-conceit,
While just behind the stone in darkness cold
In linen bands now swaddled head to feet
Is not a body but a grain of wheat.

Jeffrey Essmann is an essayist and poet living in New York. His poetry has appeared in numerous magazines and literary journals, among them Dappled Things, the St. Austin Review, The Society of Classical Poets, Amethyst Review, Agape Review, America Magazine, U.S. Catholic, Heart of Flesh Literary Journal, Edge of Faith, Pensive, and various venues of the Benedictine monastery with which he is an oblate. He is editor of the Catholic Poetry Room page on the Integrated Catholic Life website.