We rattled in the soldier’s fist,
bone-born cubes with black-eyed faces,
shaken in the dust of skull-ground,
we sang our clatter over nailed man’s silence.

We rolled where the sun split shadows,
where gamblers laughed beneath the lifted wood,
where garments lay like fallen skins—
and the robe, seamless as riverwater,
waited for the throw of chance.

We were prophecy’s pebbles,
tongues of ivory hissing in the air,
spelling an ancient psalm in the soldier’s palm.
We tumbled the sentence not ours to make:
cloth uncut, fate unbroken,
a single winner crowned in mockery of kings.

O we, the blind-eyed oracles,
danced in dust and blood,
our numbers cast like thunder over Golgotha—
and the garment passed, whole as the word,
from one hand to another,
while He hung seamless in His death.