1. Christ Falls the
First Time
Here falls he first and knows that he must rise.
On this flint bosom her condemned Lord
Would snuggle as the swaddled infant lies,
These public stones his secret, stable ward.
A rude beginning when there was no room
Makes now less rued this resting from the rood.
They would have stoned him when it was too soon,
Now seeks he stones to bathe with salty rheum.
But yet redemption lies a weary way
Ahead and Roman pikes yet pry and prod,
A seven-sentence sermon yet to say,
A hangman yet to name him Son of God.
He rises, struggles onward for the prize,
Then falls again to find he cannot rise.
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