My ancestors spread the blood of lambs
Over their archways and on door jams.
The Death Angel freed us from Pharaoh’s sway.
We crossed the Red sea with wives and rams.
I rode a ship from my home Cyrene,
Weary of bread and salted sardines
From Joppa I trudged to Jerusalem:
The Passover feast amid spring green.
The solders flanked three scourged, bleeding souls.
One with a wreath of thorns? Roman trolls!
Why do they yell “Crucify? Crucify?”
Like scarecrows, to hang on crossbeam poles?
The man fell under his blood-soaked beam.
“You there,” the soldier yelled with a scream,
“Pick it up and bring it to the Skull.”
I lugged it. His blood made me unclean.
I saw them wilt on that that murky day.
He looked at me, and then passed away.
Scoffers sneered and left. I stared, sick at heart.
Could this Son of Man be so displayed?