Good Friday II

Step upon step inching nearer still,
The shoulder's weight, mounting;
Rising dust in sunlight danced
As mocking voices of the air did bid you halt.




The guard's shouts whip you on, yet
The strain, too immense for your mangled flesh-
(The flagellum's work had done its course)
The Cyrene, an unwilling aide to your royal ascent.

The women's tears mourned you
As flourished palm leaves were traded for stones
Hosannas for the spittle of contempt.
I pulled back my window curtains for a clearer view-

Across my loft, the shining roman watched
With hands still damp of red-tinged clearwater.
His eyes darting amongst the crowd for trace
Of truth- he did not know what it was.

Upon the skull your bloodied form trickled
Upwards, defying weight and gravity of suffering
As you collapse. Your body spent,
They flip you over like a steak.

Your stripes so red, so deep, so shredded-
It was hard to see you as a man.
Pikes of rusted metal did draw your screams-
They confirmed your mortality.

Two through the palm, and one through the ankle.
Sniggers and jokes sound the call to hoist you skyward,
A banner of insolence, of blasphemy and triumph.
Prayers of redemption fell yet from your lips

The hours grew long as you hung there fullview,
A criminal's death for the gentle carpenter's son.
The shell of your body broken, precious blood like nard all poured out
To the backdrop of gentle thunder, rolling dice, muffled tears.

"It is finished", you say; your work is done.
The sky darkens, the tent of the rainclouds breaks
The earth bellows angrily whilst the angels sing their silent praises---
Perfect Love has cast out all fear, both now and evermore.