Was it the cross that wounded his soul?
As it tore at his every breath,
or the nails as they tore into flesh,
and thorns that shocked his skull,
even the lashes gouging out his flesh,
was their terror his true torment? Or
was it in the garden, where he made
a choice? Where he sweated blood,
as the tortured do, and begged his
Father to let him stay heal and care.
“Yet, not my will,” he said, “but yours.”
The pain of parting and leaving a job,
part done. Leaving it in the hands of
the earth bound ones, to fight to scrap
to argue about ethics and kill each other.
to fight over the very meaning of a word.
Yet the truth he left to you and me
is simply to love Him, our neighbours
as ourselves, for the new world to dawn.
To care as Jesus did and to live
opposing prejudice and poverty.
Then, we shall see the kingdom come,
we shall smooth his bloodied brow
and set a smile on a face grimaced
in terror of the next breath, and those
fractured feet will walk free again.