Jesus, the God-man, the Savior,
Hanging there. His legs are
Twisted trees, His feet are locks

Whose keys have been
Irrepably lost. Though meek,
how His arms must ache

To hold me. The torso white, gleaming,
Scourged like the scars on Pilate’s
Silvery moon. At this stage, suffering

Has no meaning except for
The splayed Y of his sacrifice.
Indeed at this stage, thirst

Must desperately hurt. If I
Should burn these lines of verse
As I would paper, and watch my words

Rise as doves to Him on the Cross,

Wouldn’t that be love of a kind?
Wouldn’t that be a sacrifice,
Worth something?