If I pot this precious potoroo
Drenched it is with tears
Will this cursed ground release it
In the Jubilee of Years?
I plant its baby body
Rooted down in rot
Barely grown, it groans
Wet with blood and clot
Sown in futile soil
Wearing earthenware
Will it wake from moaning
At our Lord upon the air?
Will its sores be-form a glory
In scars like Christ our king
Whose gory marks of lashings
Are the stripes that make us sing?
Will its wounds wind up in worship
With a weight of majesty?
Will it be worth the wait to see
What this potoroo will be?
And will every little deadened thing
Be recovered from the thief
Who for long eons has kept them bound
In a slavery of grief?
The countlessness of creatures
Consumed in enmity
Will they survive destruction
Among the dung and entropy?
Underneath his belly
Not for whose sake the clay was cursed
But tethered to A'dam
To decay until he bursts
This drowning potsherd, a waiting world
The wind of life, it cries
A baptism of countless tears
Whose dam will break the skies
Death will bury this treasure
Like a deed kept dry in clay
It's a title plot of land
Jarred up until the promised day
When waters break, and labour ends
With offspring from the womb
Appearing first in bursting light
Heel tread foot on the tomb
The womb-man's pain will pang no more
When all the rocks have split
The pregnant earth will open up
When Easter's kids appear
The pot itself and baby roo
The plantlet and our world
The potoroo and the sons of God
When earthlings all unfurled
Sabbatical of sabbath days
The re-born ground and skies
And empty tombs out of the womb
When potsherds each un-dies
What will this pot and roo-ling be
When dust and clay be finally free?
And what will your tattoo then say
When scars remain without decay?
