Christ Bore No Stigmata

Christ bore no stigmata,
When they pulled Him from the Tree.
They were worn by his disciples,
And all Humanity.

Even at the last supper,
Before that fated death,
All bore His afflictions,
Save He and, yet, one other,
Who loved Him more than breath.

They bore His marks beforehand,
For all His misery;
For their weakness and their burning shame;
For their coward infamy....
Save one, who, with Him, bore no mark,
Before The Judas Tree.....

Who loved Him and delivered Him
Unto His destiny.
	
Written in April of 1976 by James R. Hoye

Weep No More

Weep no more.....
For nothing now remains of such
In silent places.

Not long before,
There were refrains,
Albeit drowned in mocking laughter,
Found in empty rooms;
Heard perhaps, in catacombs.

But, weep no more.....
Let that be laughter's loss.
The chalice, which spilt forth the sound,
Lies sated. empty, on the ground.

Blood no longer trickles from the cross.

Written in 1969 by James R. Hoye

Postscript To Autumn

The maple tree is mute,
As is the oak,
As is the elm;

My Captain! To the helm!

Our crew is silent,
Our sails deserted to the land.
Are we to be the victims of
The silent song they sing?
Shall we take no last stand?

At that,.... He simply sent a flake,
Which whispered, "We command".

Written in 1964 by James R. Hoye

Footnote

The fruit, bled dry, was brown and grey.
It's surface wrinkled....
slowly growing dusty in its blood....

Yet, there was a dove at the end of the flood,
And a fig leaf in the mouth of the dove....
				
And in the blood,
lying, spat upon the ground,
There was Love.

Written in 1964 by James R. Hoye

Wood Etching

Carpenter carving,
Life more than wood.

Carpenter hewing
The crossarms so good,
			
That they cross him,
And kill him,
And laugh that he should.

In the passage of time,
Be returned to the wood.

Written the Fall of 1964 by James R. Hoye

Things

Record stacks,
Barbie dolls,		

Railroad tracks,
Crying towels,
		
Summer rains,
Lizard's spine,
			
Sewer drains,
Holy wine,

Love in bloom...when God is dead.
Abortion is our portion.

Written in 1968 by James R. Hoye