Crucified Lord, so naked to the world,
you live unseen within that nakedness,
consigned by proxy to the judas-kiss
of our devotion, bowed beneath the gold,
with re-enactments, penances foretold:
scentings of love across a wilderness
of retrospection, wild and objectless
longings incarnate in the carnal child.
Beautiful for themselves the icons fade;
the lions and the hermits disappear.
Triumphalism feasts on empty dread,
fulfilling triumphs of the festal year.
We find you wounded by the token spear.
Dominion is swallowed with your blood.
— Geoffrey Hill