Simple Sonnet Of The Passion

I watch the death in the slow flame
and mind collapsing and time gone
(with unuttered sadness), and life's blamo
filtering through each dying bone
His friends think now of the life shared
with us all (he the revealed end blinding good),
of the sea footstep, the seeing by clay,
his walking with tramps and tarts, and the day,
not water made wine, or stones made bread
were enough, but wine and bread to be blood
and body — which was his from Mary,
mother of sorrows; now, watching the slow
flame of death, she sees time's woe
(with unuttered sadness), dying, weary.

Phillip Knight.