Don't rush Easter. It's a Sunday thing;
And even then, it's rushed a little bit.
The prophecies to which he's said to fit
Claimed the third day; for three you have to wring
Every last bit of Saturday, and swing
A little Friday and a little Sunday. Sit
Today in silence, knowing that he will commit
The harrowing of hell. Tomorrow you can sing
Hallelujah, praise God; but today
Live in the moment, with him in the grave
The rock not yet pulled back. The women cry,
The men wander directionless and say
"What was the point of this?" Don't try to waive
The stretch of time when Jesus meant to die.
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