PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Of all those I have had to crucify,

only one man (of them) know how to die.

He was a Jew, come down from Galilee

(among our provinces, one of the least).

He spoke in the Jews temple.  Their high priest

became angered; nor, from that moment, ceased

to plot against him with dark perfidy.

Pilate---who had come to Jerusalem

to keep good order in town through the Feast---

questioned the charges, but chose to condemn

that Rabbi, whom we scourged generously.

During all that, he did not plead nor cry;

nor played the rebel with bravado's threat;

nor spoke like lawyers, with "And yet, and yet . . . ."

Then, at the cross site, we drove each long nail

into his wrists and feet (new soldiers quail

at that; brand new recruits turn very pale).

He made not one noise as we hammered through,

nor cursed his lot, his parents, or us, too.

For some reason, that morning's time seemed slow.

He said, "Father forgive them, for they know . . ."

(was i counted with "them"?) ". . . not what they do."

Most crucifixions leave me feeling bored.

But not this one.  No criminal's long death

was his, but as he gasped for each short breath,

I felt that his whole life was to be poured

out as the greatest of all sacrifices

(though set upon by the priesthoods' vices);

and that, for this purpose and destiny,

he had been marked for all eternity.

Was something in his person of Divine

nature?  And why should this question be mine?

All that was yesterday.  Why am I taunted

by this, and like a trembling madman haunted?

Starward