|Author:||Nola||Published:||over 2 years ago.|
|Tags:||Christian, poetry, Easter||Category:||Poetry|
I hear their distant taunts— Crucify him. My stomach convulses as the chorus erupts. Is this the day I reap what I’ve sown?
Soldiers unlock my chains, lead me through hollow chambers that amplify the roar outside with each step. A rioting mob for my insurrection, my heartbeat exchanged for one I killed.
I blink as daylight assaults my shadows; see Pilate plunge hands into a bowl and raise them dripping, raise them clean.
I’m pushed into the crowd Is this how it’s done? Turn me loose so they can pull my shoulders from their sockets before the nails find their mark?
But I’m untouched. They’re focused on someone else. Crucify him. The tunic rips from his back. The lash carves its first blow and again and again. How many is that? Twelve? Thirteen?
I run from the melee, relief and confusion replacing the certainty of death
but who have they traded for me?
© Nola Passmore
Published in Time of Singing, Vol. 39, No. 1, 2012, pp. 38-39.