The Shroud


by Sue Stone

How white the linen

they laid out

at first.

How clean the water was

in its ewer,

waiting to be poured.

How fresh the towel.

Loving hands though,

soon turned the waters

ruby red

in a vain attempt

to erase some of the terrors of the day.

Sweet spice could not wholly

cover up the smell

of blood,

of pain,

of death,

of the cost of redemption.

Loving hands, though,

wrapped the linen snugly

over his prostrate form,

as if in final gesture,

a last farewell,

letting the whiteness of the sheet

turn what color it would,

Loving hands

never knowing

what image

their care

would leave behind.

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