Alex Smith:
William Tyndale Considers His Task

In the beginning God, the word,
the free property of all men.

How dusty, besmirched
and covered a thing
it has become, its glory
hidden from men's eyes.

We lack
our rightful epiphany.

An overdressed age —
domed hat, ruff and doublet
conceal the man, separate
him from virtue.

Great Jehovah is in the frost,
speaking to the bone —
iced diamond of the will.

Seasons turn, time runs away
with the melting snow,
the quicksilver brook
glints in the February sun.
Spring, reminder of age, accuses —
the mind must now bend to the task,
unto that which is left undone.

The spirit is willing,
but the flesh is weak —

so many recant at the sight
of their instruments —

   “Shew them, that their minds
   may turn from heresy.”

The powers that be
would tear the tongue from my head.

Christ, jewel of the new covenant,
spills rubies against
the retreating snow,
sheds his five wounds.

God shall be spoken
a boy that driveth the plough
shall know more of scripture
than these Pharisees.

My neck upon it.

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