March 5th, 2022: At the Armenian cathedral in Lviv, a prized 15th-century wooden sculpture of Christ on the Cross was removed for the first time since the second World War and taken to a secret, safe place. (Source: BBC)
Move him gently,
he’s heavier than you’d think,
as dead things tend to be,
more hard and prone to breaking.
The cuts that stare like faithful eyes,
the tautened skin and arch of bone
show his sculptor knew the frailty of flesh,
how famine claims a body as its own.
A tender act, no ceremony,
wrap him in a flameproof shroud,
lower him from cross to concrete bunker
and say that truly Christ is dead.
Tomorrow don’t come back and hope to see
the stone pushed out, his mantle thrown;
he’ll not be met at roadside wrecks and craters,
nor stretch thin arms to stall an armoured column.
He will not bring us bread to eat,
he’ll not put smart words on our tongues,
nor will he stanch our tears;
he will not bring us back our sons.
But if his walking out found company
on watch a frozen hour at cross or roadblock,
they’d put aside their spades and guns
and clothe him in their own fatigues.
And say he offered them his cuts
to warm their fingers in,
they’d doubtless show him theirs and say,
this is a common thing.
Maurice Quirke is London-Irish. He taught English and drama at the High School, Rathgar, and has taught in London schools for 30 years
Move him gently,
he’s heavier than you’d think,
as dead things tend to be,
more hard and prone to breaking.
The cuts that stare like faithful eyes,
the tautened skin and arch of bone
show his sculptor knew the frailty of flesh,
how famine claims a body as its own.
A tender act, no ceremony,
wrap him in a flameproof shroud,
lower him from cross to concrete bunker
and say that truly Christ is dead.
Tomorrow don’t come back and hope to see
the stone pushed out, his mantle thrown;
he’ll not be met at roadside wrecks and craters,
nor stretch thin arms to stall an armoured column.
He will not bring us bread to eat,
he’ll not put smart words on our tongues,
nor will he stanch our tears;
he will not bring us back our sons.
But if his walking out found company
on watch a frozen hour at cross or roadblock,
they’d put aside their spades and guns
and clothe him in their own fatigues.
And say he offered them his cuts
to warm their fingers in,
they’d doubtless show him theirs and say,
this is a common thing.
Maurice Quirke is London-Irish. He taught English and drama at the High School, Rathgar, and has taught in London schools for 30 years
