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Poetry

School Crucifix

Tom Pyke

Against the cross that stands now on the lawns
the workmen lean their ladder; arms that ache
with effort hold the cold lych to its stake
and bolt it there. Glass fibre mimics torn
flesh, and stainless steel struts a crown of thorns.
The playground's children gathered for their break
become a Golgotha crowd, and for Christ's sake
they ask the men to stop this work that spawns
such fears - a treasured artefact of faith
threatened, somehow. But sacred and profane
are at this blood-spilled moment hand in hand.
This truth is sweet and bitter to embrace
that hope is won, carved from a saviour's pain,
and all that we can do is watch and stand.


Tom Pyke