It trickles down your legs, red ooze from wounds
to which frayed whips applied their flaying prongs.
The soldiers' jest of thorny wreath festoons
your scarlet scalp.  Slimed sandal soles and thongs
caress your feet with dust suffused in blood.
Your tunic's fabric bites your flesh peeled back.
To eyes your bound hands raise to block the flood
of stinging bloody sweat.  Pain doesn't lack.
The sun has moved in time; increased its heat.
You stand alone, accepting this crowd's sneer.
You smell the blood of your wounds, and the sweet
clean odor of freshly cut wood is near.
Would you remember now your works hand-made
well learned from him who taught you skills and trade?
 
 
 

Would you now bring to mind a long past day
when work was done in the carpenter's shop
and you and Joseph bade all cares full stop
to watch sheep wool clouds in the blue sky play?
Perhaps it was outside in grass you lay
with shoulders resting on elbows as prop
permitting cool caressing air to mop
toil's cleansing sweat, hard labor's ready pay.
Your Mother came with some drink and some food,
fresh bread with olives and new fragrant cheese.
Each ate enjoying the beauty and mood,
with thanks to the One, only love may please.
As aging Joseph supped, did he enjoy
recollections of you as babe and boy?

Now through these memories heckler's taunts pierce,
and snarling words stab, "Crazed fool!  False Prophet!
Blasphemer!" they kick dust, spit and wave fierce
hand gestures.  If to the future you set 
your eyes; then what is offered by coming time?
Parched and slow torture by suffocation's
tight wrenching claws, where death in your prime
is moot to rioting warring factions?
And if farther in time your soul would fly
what would you see, but more hate and the hoard
of poor and the tortured who bleed.  So why
accept beams combined and not flee, O Lord?
Abuse and hate on scourged shoulders you place,
And by the cross raise Love's redeeming Grace.

                                 © E. David