Joseph of Arimathea

From behind the cross,
I pounded out nails
protruding through wood
till loose enough to pull free
while others in front
supported him against 
further tears to hands and feet.

We lowered him slowly
like a child from a great height,
swaddled him in linen,
laid him on a makeshift cot. 
I looked to his mother. 
She nodded. 
We lifted,

and carried him one last lonely mile,
our backs to Jerusalem,
dust clouds rising in puffs behind us
from the soles of our feet.

• Anne Catherine Emmerich’s vision

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