Given that lambs

are infant sheep,

that sheep are afraid and foolish, and lack

the means of self-protection, having

neither rage nor claws,

venom nor cunning,

what then

is this ‘Lamb of God’?

This pretty creature, vigorous

to nuzzle at milky dugs,

woolbearer, bleater,

leaper in air for delight of being, who finds in astonishment

four legs to land on, the grass

all it knows of the world?

With whom we would like to play,

whom we’d lead with ribbons, but may not bring

into our houses because

it would spoil the floor with its droppings?

What terror lies concealed

in strangest words, O lamb

of God that taketh away

the Sins of the World: an innocence

smelling of ignorance,

born in bloody snowdrifts,

licked by forebearing

dogs more intelligent than its entire flock put together?

God then,

encompassing all things, is

defenceless? Omnipotence

has been tossed away,

reduced to a wisp of damp wool?

And we

frightened, bored, wanting

only to sleep ‘til catastrophe

has raged, clashed, seethed and gone by without us,

wanting then

to awaken in quietude without remembrance of agony,

we who in shamefaced private hope

had looked to be plucked from fire and given

a bliss we deserved for having imagined it,

is it implied that we

must protect this perversely weak

animal, whose muzzle’s nudgings

suppose there is milk to be found in us?

Must hold in our icy hearts

a shivering God?

So be it.

Come, rag of pungent

quiverings,

dim star.

Let’s try

if something human still

can shield you,

spark

of remote light.