His Love Frees

Here the pained dove is fluttering. He appears, panicking.
As He rolls on the tip. Below the horizon of a crimson sky.
Crying into the wider shadows. Overcome by weeping.

A Roman’s boot. A splash of mud. A noise of baleful joy.
Death entices the carnival crowd. “Roll up! Embrace decay.”
Soldiers march, keeping time. Ignorant of ancient prophecy.

Golgotha. The place of the skull. Where it seems to end.
Crosses flourish in bloodied soil. Manned by corpses.
Infested with flies. Some cling to life. Breathing in rasps.
(Spectators place bets. On how long they will last.)

-“Here He comes.”

Prince of Peace. Holy. Lovely. Dearest Man of Sorrows.
Quivering. Stumbling. His body gushing streams of red.
Dead thorns crown him. Rammed into His sweet head.

“Hang Him! Wring His neck… I’ll do it! No, let me!”
Demonic laughs lusting for gore. “Hold the mob back!”
Rome’s guards draw swords. Stay the wolf pack.

Here is His rough wooden cross. T-shaped. Gnarled.
Fear. He falls under its weight. Teeth bite into dust.
Choking on clay dirt – the Centurion pulls Him up.

Simon of Cyrene. Reluctant… but ‘persuaded’.
Gives a helpful hand. Helping them kill. Downhill.
Last steps. Hopeless. Cadaverous wasteland.

Nails. Heavy metal barbs. A hammer is raised.
Our Lamb is stretched over the cross. Dazed.
Thunderous angry blows. In agony. He writhes.

A deep hole in the ground. Gehenna wondering below.
Not realising heaven’s bait. As the cross fills the gap.
Touch of pure sacrifice. It starts burning hell’s gate.

This dying lasts for hours. Women watch, helpless.
His body is a waxwork. Face and limbs contorted.
No sounds. Except quick gasps. Someone is crying.

-And then: “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?”

He’s not calling for a prophet. As so-and-so said.
Sour wine in a sponge. Bleed on cracked lips.
His glassy eyes distant. People-ghouls smile.

A tremendous shout. A cry colouring the air.
“Daddy, into your hands. I give my spirit.”
His lungs begin the death rattle. Earth quakes.

Then it ends. No life in Him. No life at last.
The soldier-in-charge of battle is kneeling.
Aghast. Humbled by Calvary’s rod. He whispers.

-“This man really was the Son of God.”

This poem first appeared in ‘Cross-Cascade: A poetry collection.’ A small collection of poems exploring the changed reality bought for us by Jesus Christ’s sacrifice on the cross. A number of these poems have featured in ‘God and Nature‘ online magazine by the American Scientific Affiliation.

Thank You For Supporting My Writing!