Semana Santa Poem by Alan Bruce Thompson

The holy family made of wood,
Hoisted on shoulders, staggering then stood.

Through the town, carried aloft at night,
Candles flickering, shadows cast, a trick of the light.

Eighty feet in step, shuffle along the street,
Carrying a monstrous scene that we should not meet.

The naked Christ in pain, who died for us,
Jammed between wall and tree and the town bus.

The floating tableaux cruise through the town,
And converge at the church where they are put down.

Jesus, Mary and the Crucifixion the wrong way round
Does not matter because our feet are finally still on the ground.

A week of carrying our faith on our back,
Makes us really see the faith that we lack.