This Bloke I Know Is
Jesus
I used to see him
in the queue
Most mornings at
the pool
Knew him just
enough to say hello
Or pass the time
of day
Then, perhaps, during
swimming
Or in the changing
room later
A quiet,
unassuming man
With nothing much
to say
I didn’t notice
much at first
That his beard had
begun to grow
To frame his
youthful face
Adding to his
gravitas
Nor did I pay much
attention
As Easter-tide
approached
That he seemed
pre-occupied
And turned more within
himself
But then I saw him
in the street
Bowed and bloodied
A crown of thorns
upon his head
Carrying a heavy
wooden cross
A crowd following,
shouting
Acting out the Passion
Play
And its Good
Friday journey
To the Market
Place Golgotha
Where he was
quietly crucified
Among a staring
group of people
Three days later
he lived again
And stood there in
the queue
Waiting for the
pool to open
I couldn’t believe
it was really him
And that he had
come among us
Just a normal day
with its Good Mornings
And desultory chat
among the regulars
He still looked
like no-one special
He seemed to be an
ordinary bloke
But now I knew one
more thing about him
That he was Jesus
in his spare time
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