Crown of thorns, bated breath, ragged pulse.
Crown of thorns, bated breath, flowing red.
Should the dial be reversed by command of the sun,
Should it be held high upon the horizon,
thundering would be all that was heard,
The thundering of a whip,
The crack so distinct, so jarring against his flesh
Flesh, which was the very same to be prophesied,
Flesh that was bound to be sacred and chaste.
Now, it holds no such promise,
Now, eyes remain clouded
Now, cheeks are wet
Mutters escape the lips of those who watch,
Mockingly some stare, they snarl and yap like wild wolves as they feast their eyes upon their bloodied meal
His hands fastened with iron
His ravaged limbs twitch beneath the heat of the sky
‘ Christ, what did you die for? ‘
One beast howls from the pack,
Tongues are held,
They await their answer,
They expect an up rise, They crave the signal from their wretched messiah.