“Jesus laughed.”
Hunched over the vellum,
The scribe tutted.
His pen would never admit levity.
If ever he encountered
A disciple’s reminiscence
Less than solemn,
The nib would splutter, spotting the skin.
He’d be at pains then
To scrape the blot, erase the stain,
As now he excised from his copy
Those two ungodly words.
He could not sully his vocation
By transcribing anything of Christ’s life
But bright holiness.
“Jesus laughed.” Impossible!
Why, not even the Bishop, known for his piety,
Smiled, except despairingly!
Laughter denotes nothing but mockery.
Joy is a sober virtue;
It needs no fleeting expression.
Future generations would not thank him
To copy down, “Jesus laughed,”
Any more than, “The Lord guffawed”.
Whatever an apostle’s memory,
It is the scribe’s calling to perfect
A transcription for posterity.
So Jesus never laughed,
Apparently.
The Saviour of Mankind
Had no time for merriment.
And, ever since, the pompous and the bigoted
Have basked in smug self-righteousness.
Happiness that overflows is scorned
And only soured living gets a halo.

Jesus weeps.