Well, It Is Only Tuesday of Holy Week

He thought about writing a profound
poem. After all it is Holy Week, not
exactly a jocular event in time what
with talk of scapegoats, paschal

lambs and lots and lots of violence,
such prefacing, predating, prophesy-
ing and placing the proverbial stamp
of approval (looking backward) on

the preaching, parables, proclivities
of one particularly unfortunate chap
who grew up in obscurity in a back-
water town surrounded by not par-

ticularly fertile territory named the
Promised Land by those who were
ever so tired of wandering in a desert
they would settle for just about any-

where, which they did. As he said,
he thought about something with
profundity but with so very much
misery to go around and anxiety

to boot he couldn’t help thinking
about the baby-faced, blue-eyed
Jeffrey Hunter cast as Jesus, who
if prophecy be right was not comely

to look upon and had no beauty
in him to behold and that led to
thoughts of Cecil B. DeMille and
Charlton Heston and Easter Bunnies

and colored eggs and milk chocolate
and he started to laugh and then
started humming “Always look on
the bright side of life,” but the most

serious religious depiction in recent
years of Holy Week was Life of Brian
and that had already been done. And
then he thought,

Well, it is only Tuesday of Holy Week.

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