I am the thorn who pierced
his innocent brow,
used for torture by those who would dominate.
Transformed by him, he bears the suffering,
does not blame me for the grief that I deliver.
I am the whip they use to lash him.
Designed to sing with each stinging blow,
I exalt in the ecstasy of parting flesh and
metallic taste of blood.
Only, not this time.
His blood does not excite. It tastes
of salty tears of an anguished mother.
I am the dust that covers the road
and feels his stumbling, uncertain steps.
I swirl up in choking eddies from the turbulence of the
writhing, watching crowds.
His legs are weak from lack of food and sleep,
and from the heavy cross he drags,
gouging deep into the dusty road
as he struggles up the hill this hot afternoon.
We are the grasses along the road,
Bending and swaying in the wind and
the heat of the day.
The wind sings the message,
“He is coming! Bow down as he passes.”
Then the wind lifts us up; we rustle and rattle and click
our Hosannahs. |
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I am the rough cross he brings to his own execution.
A once proud tree, felled in the prime of life,
brought low to this degradation.
I lift him high.
And he is high and lifted up
upon my humble frame.
We are the clouds, blood red in early morning,
Now thin and pale in the hot noon sky,
we provide no shade for his aching head
and burning thirst.
In his hours of suffering, we gather in dark brooding
masses to cover the sun,
a premature nightfall as he cries out to heaven, “Why
have you forsaken me?”
The earth trembles.
“Into your hands I commend my spirit.”
“The earth trembles.
“It is finished.”
“It is finished.”
Kathy Ralston
March 2, 2003
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