The Old Calvary

It is propped in a corner of the yard,
Where vines wreathe it
With leaves and delicate tendrils;
A mutilated trunk,
Worn, and gray with weather stains;
Lichens cling to its flesh as a leprosy.

But for a moment I stood in adoration,
Reverent, as the sun-rays
Struck between the glistening leaves;
Lighting the frail, lean form,
The shrunken flanks,
That knew more suffering than held
The agonies of Laocoon.

For the memory of many prayers clung to it,
Tenderly, and glistening,
Even as the delicate vine
To the sacred flesh.