This is another of my college poems. It’s one of the only ones I thought was half-way decent and meant anything:
Victory, I think, was never so bloody,
or the victor so broken—like a rag doll really.
He kind of hung there, limp.
Too much blood to look at;
I think he was more like a clump of
tenderized meat than a man.
The only thing that kept him upright
were a couple of grimy nails the size of
cigars forced through his hands.
I couldn’t bear to look at him.
(Odd, to think the man who saved my life
couldn’t stand up straight.)
Ironic, to think of His enemies’ smug smiles,
gloating over their handiwork.
The crowds mocking, laughing even, at this
Champion, even as he begged his Father
For their forgiveness.
They didn’t understand, each drop of blood,
each sigh, each groan brought Him one step
closer to His ambition, one step closer
to their lives.
They didn’t remember, no one took
His life from Him, He gave it freely.
That is why, I think, so much that day
went on unnoticed.
Nobody saw the beggar
whose sight was restored,
Or the father of a girl
who was “only sleeping”, staring on
The crowds weren’t listening when
Institutions fell and kingdoms were
laid low with every
lash and hammerfall.
As Laws established long before their fathers
were swept away by the blood
pouring from his torn brow.
But nobody saw it.
He killed Death before their very eyes!
no one heard
His ragged words of triumph, “It is finished”,
dragged from cracked and bloody lips,
stating his conquest.
Almost nobody saw it, besides a few friends
and a dirty thief hanging next to Him.
Still, it happened. And in the end,
Victory, poured out in blood and water that day,
like a broken fountain.
Soli Deo Gloria