Seeker

For reflection on Good Friday here is a poem by the Scottish poet  Edwin Muir (1887 - 1959) THE KILLING That was the day they killed the Son of God on a squat hill-top by Jerusalem. Zion was bare, her children from their maze sucked by demon curiosity clean through the gates. The very halt and blind had somehow got themselves up to the hill. After the ceremonial preparation, the scourging, nailing, nailing against the wood, erection of the main-trees with their burden, while from the hill rose an orchestral wailing, they were there at last, high up in the soft spring day. We watched the writhings, head the moanings, saw the three heads turning on their separate axles like broken wheels left spinning. Round his head was loosely bound a crown of plaitied thorn that hurt at random, stinging temple and brow as the pain swung into its envious circle. In front the wreath was gathered in a knot that as he gazed looked like the last stump left of a death-woun...