The stone chamber exhales cold silence.
Wooden frame, narrow as a coffin of denial.
There lies the broken geometry of an idol,
Fractured bones learning the lexical of decay,

The face is emaciated by the language of blows,
Lips swollen into mute prophecy.
Eyes forced open toward an empty heaven,
Glass reflecting nothing back.

If he could see himself now,
This vessel of bruised divinity,
This meat abandoned by miracle,
Would he still ascend the hill of skulls?

Would he carry the timber of execution
knowing the verdict of flesh?

Nature stands above the corpse,
Like a colossal engine of iron law,
Deaf gears grinding eternity,
a machine that devours the sacred whole.

The body is proof.
The wound is testimony.

Here lies the conqueror of storms,
the caller of the dead from stone.
Yet the grave keeps its contract,
no voice answers… Lazarus, Talitha. SILENCE.

And somewhere in that impossible silence
History holds its breath wondering
Whether resurrection can survive
The evidence of death.