Jesus stretches upon the wall,

The colors of life and death bleeding in from all sides.

His painted blood drips in the marble, white silence.

Are the saints deathless as the church 

Emboldens their face in the corinthian pillar?

Are the dead gods of the old ages demonized

As the paint which had gleamed them chromatic 

Chips away in the dullness–

Fallen snow heaping in the corner?

What of you or I, are we saints and dead gods

Deathless in our breathing, born to wake 

Upon the blistering days

And give life to the lifeless; joy to the joyless;

Hope to the hopeless? 

Do I have the strength as the Romans come for Yeshua? 

As the voiceless make the singers mute

As the faithful become faceless in the bewildering squal 

Of discernment, where the meticulousness of 

Belief–

The pride of humility is impregnated with shame?

And the three great halls of liberty take on the snowfall of dead gods

And dead gods come back with devilry the color of civility

And boots stamp upon the altar of freedom to raise the cross.

The new birth of discontent aflame as the mighty make suffer

The quiet and thoughtful

As the cacophony of disillusion overburdens 

Contemplation and meditation.

The crime was the silence of pontification

Amidst the booming of selfrighteous destruction.

They raised the cross and nailed the limbs

We watched the Resolution of the Desk

Become the tin throne of Barbarism.

Crowns of thorns piled upon the altar, like poker chips;

The sacrifice of wisdom to bet on mayhem

For the bleeding of the sheep and the shepherd

To free the packs of wolves.

Do you let the world take you up on high,

Lay you down on splintered wood

And nail it’s derangement through your hands

Which once felt the sweat in their palms and

 The wind through their fingers?

Do you let these new Romans raise you up, through bleeding 

Stigmata, and stigmatize you into a prisoner

One of the many thieves, not 

THE ONE

Who was Crucified—

To one day rise again in shameless forgiveness 

Without an edge of vengeful jurisprudence,

But one of the noisy many in the forest of crosses unsacremented, permanent and silenced in the act of ending.

The Romans can hammer the nail—

But can they be forgiven?

Does this marble Jesus up on the wall,

Bleed truly as I do now?