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I tell you this about that Jesus, whom we crucified
(yes, I was on the execution team):
he was not like the many men that we have killed that way---
he did not plead with us, or curse, or scream.

We beat him almost to the death with scourges, as the blood
and sweat poured off him in a steady stream.
We put our back and arms into it, but he ruined our fun:
because, for all we tried, he did not scream.

Then Pilate gave in to those priests, and sent our orders down.
Grinning like apes, we laid the new-cut beam
upon his shoulders, bleeding like raw meat.  We led him off:
but, on that long, slow march, he did not scream.

When we arrived on Calvary, I drove the nails, myself
into his flesh.  They said I had a gleam
upon my eyes as if I had gone crazy from the heat.
He looked right back at me, but did not scream.

He died too quickly.   Later, Mark told me he was God's Son,
a sacrificial lamb sent to redeem . . .
someone. (Lately, Mark has abandoned all of Rome's fine gods.)
But I still wonder why he did not scream

at all.  I have retired since then, but I do not sleep well.
Each night is haunted by the same bad dream---
deep shadows; fire that burns me, but does not destroy or kill.

And all I hear is my own endless scream.
 
Starward
 
[jlc]