The Cross – 2. The Hill

Previous, 1. The Garden

IMG_0383 copyLying, in pain
Flesh lacerated by the cruel whip
Knowing his fate
condemned by twisting his own words
mocked and abused
darkness falls, blood dries
no sleep, no rest
awaiting dawn

The cross drags, shuffling slowly, a cruel weight
Rough timber against torn, raw flesh,
Crown cutting in, a trickle of blood
A stumble, a fall, pain, he stands again
The city gate
The final hill, Golgotha

A nail, a hammer blow,
A searing pain through the wrist
Another, the other wrist, the feet.
Raised high on the cross, looking down
Vision blurred by agony.
Hanging like a thief with thieves

Each tiny movement torture
a few words pass from his lips
To a man on another cross
A drink refused, foul wine vinegar
A spear in his side
A cry, desolation, abandoned
Darkness, peace, release.

Next (final): 3.Life

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