The Man On The Shroud Poem by Patti Masterman

The man on the shroud, they say
Walked on pollen in the holy land,
Dusted himself all over with clay
From a distant tomb
Where cliffs were known
As eternal rooms,
And shepherds prayed.

The man on the shroud, they say
Had features like a Jew,
Who lived in another day,
His hands pierced through
By nails (they say)
His feet, too,
And dead, he lay.

The man on the shroud, they say
Was stiff with rigor,
Coins upon his eyes;
Some radiation left
His image burned through
Many layers of threads
Inside his sealed tomb.

The man on the shroud, they say
Carbon dated too young,
Though new cloth replaced
The burned, all around;
We can date the shroud,
We can judge the man-
But we can't make the image
With our own hands..