Scattered rocks amidst the sand.
Together forming a crude path;
I run from my home to the crowd’s edge.
Save the murderer, Kill the King!
They lay Him upon the cross He carried.
A mallet pounding nails
Through human flesh, driven into gnarled wood.
The sound reverberates, magnifying in volume.
I anticipate screaming
Piercing cries of agony,
Yet He is silent.
My heart sobbing, knees in the dirt;
Speechless prayer.
Hanging my head, terrified of
What sight may reveal.
The mob sneers at Him,
Mocking His torment.
Shove into the masses,
Quiet them somehow,
Somehow stop dreadful words,
Pouring from foolish mouths!
Adrenaline pushes me to the front,
I will stop them;
Take Him down myself!
Seeing the ground before me,
Their voices fade to a blur.
I stare at the ground before me,
Resisting my eyes’ instinct to follow
The scarlet path of blood streaming from the cross.
My efforts are to no avail,
My disbelieving eyes must see.
Saturated wood, blood drenched feet.
Nails, old and jagged,
Covered in gore
Glisten in the sun.
His whole body
Limp, yet so strong.
Nearly lifeless;
Never giving up.
His arms, the arms He holds the children in;
Pierced and mangled wrists,
Pools of blood below.
His hands, precious healing hands.
The world is still,
And I, eerily alone.
His face . . .
Lips slightly parted
As if in prayer,
Open eyes
Peer steadily heavenward.
His brow,
Half worried, half expectant.
Age 25