To tell this story –
of passion and of blood –
before it became history
would have been a fool’s error.
It would’ve seemed a myth –
variant and fragile –
a fool’s ballad, sung in medieval halls.
That God would robe Himself in mortal hide,
and bare Himself to naked eyes,
and walk within an earthly village,
would be a foolish tale indeed.
That the innocent for guilt would die,
that divinity would spill from lash-whipped hide,
would, in a sense,
be but a legend, but a lie.
That infinite immortality could die –
finite, yet eternal be –
without beginning, yet have end,
confounds all wise philosophy.
That Law without fail
could once be overturned –
like a prince’s kiss-breaking spell,
or a birth-giving tomb –
seems like a fallacy to me.
could die and undead be,
and by His undone death,
might undo death for me –
appears to be but a fantasy.
No fool can tell a stranger thing,
no sage would spin this dream –
and to tell this tale abroad
is foolishness supreme.