What is this day?
The lame walk, the blind see, the demons flee –
and silent He does not lift His voice to shout.
While one reed flaps,
the bruised reed stands tall, unbroken;
there’s flame still in the smouldering wick –
Yet the one
who stretched out the heavens with His palms
lifts His finger to His lips to hush…
He will not falter:
the mouth of hell snickers and licks
its lips, yet He walks furtively.
The prison doors groan.
What is this day? The sun not yet risen,
jubilee hanging anxious in the wind…
The Consolations of Writing 