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a heart of stone
Tim Vanderstoep
i wonder if the silver
weighing heavy in the robe
was clutched tight by his sweating hand
(i’ll probably never know)
or spoke accusations, thirty,
the cold metal burning thigh
a conscience’s dying protest
for One innocent would die
as feet traversed the cobbled road
to destination known,
the feet of a disciple
whose heart had turned to stone
i wonder if the lips
that had spoken loving words muttered soul’s confusion
(i know not, i never heard)
or if they formed a cold hard line
pursed in determination grim
not afraid to kiss once more
the cheek of him (he’d kissed before)
as feet trod upon dampened grass
to destination known,
the feet of a disciple
whose heart had turned to stone
i wonder if, treading on the grass
to destination known
he remembered the water turned to wine
and the Teacher who could melt stone
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