Jerusalem

Take this cross
of white and red torn
by rain's tangle
and channel sands' abrasive corn.

Lay it down
at any broken station
as a beacon of my bones
Excalibur'd into your nation's stones.

Take this cross,
tool of execution, made good
now sad among a cathedral of sour
graves, singing wind-song
to no body
but Tyrian ranks of furrow
clawed into the Gothic sod.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.