Saturday, December 20, 2014


Two thousand and twenty years ago
An infant cried at the end of a forced ride.
He lived and died as if he was the garden's man -
Eden's emissary dispensing damper bread,
Dining with wine divined from holy vines.
Prophets said there was nothing to draw us to him
But I have met him in visions and know the truth.
I walked beside him for fleeting seconds,
There were no angels and no royal parades,
Only a dusty hilltop and death as an outcast.
My eyes gazed at the title raised on a bloody tree -
Written in scorn for the king of all kings.
The world of tinsel worships a baby's magical birth,
I see a man, if he can be called a man,
And always I sense the ghastly silhouette
Of the rugged scaffold where we tortured God.

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