As if it seeped out from beneath gravestones.

Then it was stifled by an officer

Who shouted, “Arms! Now, forward march!” a whirr

Of drumsticks and then thunder — on the street

The people’s pity trampled beneath the feet

Of horses, and the wagons spurted past

Like lightning. There was no one in the last,

It seemed — until we saw an arm a-flap —

Bruised, torn, and corpse-like, through straw and the gaps

Between the bars. And there it rattled still

As if it were bidding the crowd farewell.

They drove the wagons into the weeping press

Of people, and before they could suppress

Their sorrow with a regulation whip,

The wagon had to halt before the steps

Where I stood — and at that moment, rang a bell.

I turned about and looked, and I could tell

That it was Elevation — the priest rose high

The Body and Blood of Christ, and, with a sigh

I prayed: O Lord, who before Pilate stood

And for man’s saving spilled Thy blameless blood,