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Who then is he

whom they say

looms, where no one

dare bring soul?

The very one

we hear in chant

from those whose

heart he stole?

Wretched fools

he thinks of we

who feed his

certain doom,

that surely shadows

stain his stench

whene'er he

bleeds this gloom.



So tell me prophet,

all that see

the writings

handed down?

If we looked deeper

past the mire

would archers

gather round?

Could they define

the circumstance

of stones they

choose to cast?

or hide their eyes

from what they

know, revealing

truths now passed?



Would they hold her

who owns his heart

now sleeping

'neath the soil?

an innocent

he bore with love

before the

heartbreak toil.

Or would they

call him demon

still, and hide

this piercing pain

to slaughter him

with cruel words

and feed their

own disdain?



Would they count

the cherubs five

who hear these

wicked cries,

to lead them

deep through

righteous tears

amidst malicious lies?

Or find the mirror

holds the truth

to all their

piercing blows.

That gentle hearts

forgive with peace

devoid of

surly pose.



One more thing, seer

before I close,

who then, if not

this man?

Who can they raise

their swords against

to crucify

again?

For if their bitter

hearts now cease

to find a

greater deed,

surely another

soul will break

from banter

sown as seed.



No martyr casts

a fallen stare

as mortals

we can say

and those without

a sin to bear

can cast these

stones today...

to wear a crown

of piercing thorns

upon their

sacred brow

and, drizzle tears

beneath the chants

that pious fools

send now.



But, if they truly

wear this bruise

delivered from

such loss...

will they not

just forget and

grow beyond

his tainted cross?

Or will they stir

the cauldron black

until no breath

he makes...

delighting only

in his death

no matter

what it takes.