Brethren of the Cross: Oxford, May 19, 1349 {poetry for lent}

This is the second in a series of three poems I'm sharing from Thom Satterlee's Burning Wyclif.  For more background, read this first.


Brethren of the Cross: Oxford, May 19, 1349

"Some element of the flagellant lurked in the mind of every medieval man."
-The Black Death, 64

Although in Wyclif the element was trace,
And not much lurked in his mind without his knowing,
Still he could not look away, and something --
Was it sympathy or kinship? -- went out from him
like a bird from its cage.

He stood among the crowd and watched
Over a hundred flagellants
Stripped to the waist, scourges in hand,
Grouped in a circle. Gradually their chanting
Rose in pitch and volume

As they beat their backs and chests
With spikes sewn into leather thongs,
Tearing their flesh, now bleeding
Openly, freely, in front of God, the crowd, and him
On an early afternoon with the shadown

Of St. Mary's spreading across the square,
The tip of its spire pointing
Like a finger at the righteous suffering,
As if to settle all the arguments
Over what would end this Plague:

Here, these few who give themselves
For the many.  Wyclif felt their blows
Himself and without thinking
Touched his chest, half expecting blood
To soak through his robe and stain his hand.

But when he took his hand away
And saw nothing, he knew
He had only lapsed into believing.
As suddenly as the cage had opened
It closed. He left without a word.



This poem first appeared in Roanoke Review.


an explanation of {poetry for lent}