After Thomas Eakins

The sun hangs on the blistered rock,
The Jew hangs in the sun;
The clamorers are done
Or almost done for strain of shock
And effort to relieve the strain
Have bent the knees and cracked the pain:
The end is coming soon.

On the head is bruised the shroud,
The landscape crushing dull;
The callous Red Sea gull
That saw is wandering in a cloud
While stretching out beyond the scarp
The wind and heat begin to scant
Against the hanging wall.

The hands that bruised against the space
Are weak as when the sword
Was still and the eager Seth
Stood dumb at the radiant face
Of the infant in the garden
And made the journey to Hebron
With the three seeds of birth.