It is finished and the night looms. The darkness hangs as a cloak above, Tremulous but not quite dropping, And together, under cover of light, we take His still limp bundle of bones (all of them we can see Through the veil of his skin) and take it down To the garden where the empty tomb waits: The best we both yet have to give. Our peers walk swiftly from the scene, Ready for a rest so dearly bought, to wash Their hands and sit inside their houses closed From his words of shaking mercy: Father, Forgive them. We knew not then What we did, when we stood amongst the crowd. Now we leave them. Now we take our lifeless lord, A moment, maybe, just too late, Yet still the best that we can give. Is it finished? The night looms; The darkness hangs as a cloak above, Tremulous, yes, but not quite dropping. And together, under cover of light, We take his still limp bundle of bones, And give the best we have to give: A garden where his body may wait.