All Flesh Shall See

The mountains sink, the valleys quake and rise
to make the tortured earth a level plain.
Above our heads the stars fall from the skies:
All things must pass, and nothing will remain.
Creation’s every inch writhes in this pain.
See, birth and dying are not separate works,
and in your advent, Lord, Good Friday lurks.

For entropy is woven in all things:
Now you are just as threadbare as the next
and lose more stitches with each hour that rings.
Like us, you bloom at prime and fade by sext,
are tried in flame by vespers, spirit vexed.
When compline comes, your clockwork will wind down.
How can a mortal man bear heaven’s crown?

You could have stayed far off, untouched by birth.
You who command the cleanliness of space
need not set foot upon this filthy earth
to save us in a million other ways.
But no, the universe shares in one grace:
The galaxies, O God, are born of dust,
and so are you now, into dying thrust.

All flesh is grass, and yet all flesh shall see
the glory you conceal within your skin—
like mine, too tender.  Yet you come to me.
Nearsighted, squinting and then leaning in
to see you clearly while the veil is thin,
I cannot shield you from the death you chose,
but for a moment, I can hold you close.

This unusually large ivory carving, its shape corresponding to the shape of a tusk, shows the Christ Child embracing his mother in a pose of tender intimacy. It is one of the earliest examples of what in later Byzantine times was called Eleousa, or "Virgin of Tenderness." The relief was likely to have been used for private devotion, in either a monastic or domestic setting, as an icon (Greek for "image"). Especially striking and typical of the early medieval period in Christian Egypt are the Virgin's large head, fixed gaze, and angular drapery. By Anonymous (Coptic artist)Anonymous (Byzantine artist) - Walters Art Museum: Home page Info about artwork, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=18794368