The burn


Shall I never end this burning sensation?
The Lord did signs and wonders for all.
But the all forgot the all he had done.
He opened up his mouth with teachings and parables.
And we shoved our prejudice down his throat.
He trod the second mile for us.
But we tripped him and whipped him and made him bleed.
The sensation started at my hands.
I remember when he smiled at me.
And I bashed his face in with my club.
His well trimmed hair and beard.
It was in my hands in bloodied clots.
The anointed one of Israel hung from a thieves gallows.
It was my hands that nailed him there.
That burning, it scorches and gnaws at my arms.
His clothes. . . we stripped him like a whore.
We wore our pride like jewelry, and it blinded him.
We were drunk on power, but we gave him vinegar.
Could he still know? I stabbed him with my spear.
The blood, the water, it stank of forgiveness and love.
Up my shoulders and around my neck the burning crawls.
The birds, flies and bugs ate at him like a carcass.
The sun and the wind tortured his mind.
The rocks that were thrown, bashed at his bones.
The yelling, my cursing, my hatred toward him boiled.
Still the passionate burning persisted until it consumed me.
It engulfed me like a living fire.
For it was I who killed the carpenters son.
It was I who killed him.
It was I who nailed him up
on two planks of wood and left him to rot.
It was I.
It was I.
It was I.

And the burning still burns.


Copyright 2003 by pauly hart