The Man On The Shroud

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..