OK, so they saw the sight of glory
Their master made lucent on the mountaintop
And heard God’s voice saying to pay heed.
A pointless stupefaction, a necessary silence
Followed. And none of it made sense.
Then they descended..
Transfiguration would become a pattern, when
They had persevered, a little later,
After the earthquake of nothingness they suffered
Melted a little. After
The appalling destruction of the best person
Who ever lived. After the torture, the public
Humiliation, the insulting whips
The sting of death.
After they betrayed him.
After their master was nailed to the cross, (because,
Let’s be honest, that’s what glory is.)
Hung limp and lifeless, like rejected fruit
Upon a tree stripped bare of bark and leaves
And any sign of life, like Achilles scepter
By which the gods give judgement.
After their minds were scourged of any dreams,
And because the were enduring,
After everything beautiful inside them
And so, when the unexpected happened,
Completely unexplained, they did believe,
Little by little. One good transfiguration
Deserves another, they must have thought,
And we, by proxy, must reason the same way.
But still it never will make any sense.
And the horror they endured, we also
Endure by proxy, always in the Christian background
Swallowing ineluctably all our love,
Until inevitably love will swallow it,
Bit by bit, now and then, here and there.
And what finally are we to do with such knowledge?
What good is it to man really? To know
How filled with light the final journey is.
When night has ended?