The Man On The Cross
His body,
Broken and twisted;
Nails driven
Joyfully
Through flesh and bone;
His hands and feet.
Gouged
By a crown of thorns,
Arched against
Splintered wood,
Into His eyes and mouth
Drips blood.
His mind,
A gray fog of pain;
His body
Hurts
Beyond suffering,
Yet He is conscious.
There is no relief,
No sanctuary from this
horror.
He trembles;
From parched throat
A cry echoes
Through the ages –
“O Lord,
Why hast Thou forsaken me?”
His head drops.
I stand
Before Him
Who suffers for my sake,
So I suffer not
Abandonment
And pain.
My
Unbearable
Realization,
Inhaling
Shame and Guilt.
A shaft
Of sunlight;
The head lifts;
He smiles at me,
And dies.
© Alys Caviness-Gober
