Our anointed shepherd,
Feeling strong and righteous
In the afterglow of Easter,
Grasped his microphone this morning,
Raised a hand to call some witness,
And spoke to us
About the proof of the Resurrection
The proof, he said . . .
Now I ask you
Has this man grown addicted to certainties?
Has this man been revered
And venerated
Beyond what is good for his soul?
Has he lost the old memories
Of the wet smells of dereliction
Has he forgotten what it was
To huddle on the margins
To find his joy
In the communion of outcasts
In the company of the dispossessed
To be without status
Without name?
What need had he then of proofs
What need of this morning’s weight
Of quasi-judicial evidence?
What need had he then
Of anything at all
But faith?