christ-on-the-cross-1587This 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,

weeping softly.

Or the father of a girl

who was “only sleeping”, staring on

in disbelief.

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!

And almost

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

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