I followed them, the restless, jeering lot,
Down dusty, well-worn paths outside our town.
Not even clamoring taunts and wails could drown
The anguished cries of whip-flailed flesh now shot
Clean through with nails. Him? Him whom I had sought
For so long, pining for his peace? His crown
Did not resemble one due him, the brown,
Brow-piercing thorns in hate and envy wrought.
There I beheld my Lord, not sure how life
So longed for possibly could be mine now,
For no strength’s found in shameful downfalls rife
With rumors, treachery, a thorn-crowned brow.
His eye then bade me welcome unfair strife
And find my life in sacrifice. I bow.
Into Death Like His
