Holy and Great Saturday
Sir, we have heard of your death.
To die thus is plainly brutal.
But when we came to your tomb
the sweet smell astonished us.
You spoke once of white, painted tombs
that reek of corruption within.
Your tomb is shameful outside,
the grave of a malefactor,
but inside the breath is forever ravishing,
more than lavender and cloves.
What, then, has death become?