Holy Saturday

Hope, like a mustard seed, is dead
and love alone remains.
Love, and the unremembered stains
from where love bled
when all the lesser loves had fled
forsaking hope and all its pains.
Watch now; beneath the first spring rains
the buried seed lies dead.

Blown on the wind to the ends of the earth
where truth grows up between the lies
and certainty lies buried with its doubts,
white as the labor with which a girl gives birth,
the mustard seed is dead; before my eyes
I see the resurrection's first green sprouts.