The Man Crucified
My God, my God
How can you hang there,
A white ghost thrust into a black horizon,
Rough metal stakes driven through the pale flesh of your palms
Rubbing coarsely against the oozing wounds
While cords of muscle swell in your arms
Straining to support the crushing weight
Of your frail, broken body
Your ribs almost burst through the skin of your chest
Each time you try to take a shallow breath
Drowning out the shrieking wind
To haunt my ears.
Your body is lathered with cold sweat and smeared with grime.
Blood seeps from the lacerations on your arms and naked thighs.
Your hair is caked with dirt and blood
Spilt from the purple welts that slash your forehead
Like claw marks
Left by the crown of gnarled thorns.
The blistering pain,
I can feel it tightly in my chest,
The liquid fire that surges through your veins.
Do not cry out so!
You cannot feel pain
You mustn't feel pain
You are God.
You tore from the Void the colorless mist and dust Being
Tightly between your fists like wet clay
And forced the birth of all Creation
To burst forth in a flood of life.
You cast light where there wasn't even darkness.
You are my God.
You are God.
How can the dark shadows of death be creeping up your bony cheeks
To veil your glassy eyes,
How can you be shivering in spasms of pain and cold
And cold pain
Tearing at the iron stakes
That impale you to that cross
The red blood.
The warm blood.
The hot, burning red that stains your nail-pierced hands and feet
Like wine stains,
Like that sipped from the cup at the Last Supper.
The bittersweet wine.
The bittersweet blood.
The ground upon which it's spilt should weep streams of terror and sadness
To be watered with such a holy flow.
Oh, God, I wish it would swallow us all
Do not let your head droop so, my Lord.
Do not give up breath and life.
Do not forsake me.
My, God, my God,
I can't believe you're