The images get taken away:
Robed—but it’s the colour they mocked you in;
“Here he is, here he is”—abuse of power
From the governor;
“Hail, King!”—from the armed men who spit
On him saliva and the stain of abuse.

The images get taken away;
Yet—still they’re there, always there,
Or more precisely—you are there, behind
The reality, greater than the thought,
Than words—my God, in the most hidden part:
Alive, living, in your creation, in us, in me.