on>Apocrypha
David Southward
Apocrypha
Copyright © 2018 David Southward. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.
Resource Publications
An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers
199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3
Eugene, OR 97401
www.wipfandstock.com
paperback isbn: 978-1-5326-5256-1
hardcover isbn: 978-1-5326-5257-8
ebook isbn: 978-1-5326-5258-5
Manufactured in the U.S.A. 07/03/18
Scripture quotations are from the New Revised Standard Version Bible, copyright © 1989 National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
. . . even though we once knew Christ from a human point of view,we know him no longer in that way.
(2 Cor 5:16, NRSV)
Acknowledgments
With gratitude to the editors of the journals in which the following poems first appeared:
The Other Journal: “The Cleansing of Mary Magdalene”
POEM: “A Neighbor’s Concern” and “Joseph”
The St. Sebastian Review: “The Man Who Would Be King”
Verse-Virtual: “A Passover Supper” and “How He Came to Speak in Parables”
Annunciation
Crying herself to sleep, Mary dreamed
a man came calling with an angel’s face.
He told her she was brimming with the grace
by which a world of sin could be redeemed.
So inconceivable did her fortune seem,
she questioned if the stranger’s words were true.
He whispered soothingly, The Lord is with you.
She woke—and her imagination teemed
with confidence, now she’d been shown the way
to fend off any charge of indecorum.
She raced to Joseph’s workshop, to relay
the destiny their Lord had chosen for him.
There’d be no need for guile or dropping clues;
she knew exactly how to break her news.
The Gift Bearers
Her newborn wailed from lying on rough hay
where migrants crowded, waiting to be registered.
She hoped they’d have the tact to look away—
till three magicians blurted that they’d heard
kings roar like him! They pulled out shiny globes
to catch his gaze, declared his birth a sign.
The incense of their gold-embroidered robes
transformed the crib into a makeshift shrine.
Even the shepherds leaned in to take part,
hailing the little conqueror of Rome.
His heavy lids were lifting Mary’s heart
when Joseph returned; soon they could go home.
That night, as the child nursed in her soft sleeve,
she lulled him with the feats he would achieve.
A Passover Supper
His mother let him choose the yearling lamb.
Standing in line, waiting for Temple priests
to perform the sacrifice, his head swam
with spooling blood and clumps of matted fleece.
They dragged it home. He watched her drive a stave
across its shoulders, skewer down the spine
to hold it steady over coals—as she laved
the naked loin and ribs in a roasting brine.
Before the meal, his father told again
the story of Passover: how God spares
the chosen, how all Egypt is condemned.
He ate hastily, blinking back tears
which welled up from an unfamiliar tension.
A rush of kindness—mixed with apprehension.
Joseph
When the festival was ended and they started to return, the boy Jesus stayed behind in Jerusalem, but his parents did not know it.
(Luke 2:43, NRSV)
Three days we searched the city—called his name
through market stalls, down alleys, into wells.
I felt the hot fatigue of fear and blame
in Mary’s tears. But how could I foretell
what he would do—this staid, abstracted boy
who memorized the prophets and withdrew
into himself? A childhood filled with joy
was brushed away like sawdust as he grew.
We found him in the Temple: all aglow
with rabbis’ praise. They laughed that one so young
should
