Ecce Homo - Lamentation
from NONE - The Hours of the Cross
Dreams threaten to be real, crowded by visions
Of strange feasts; bodies that unveil from sleep
And torment of tortuous grimaces -
Folly of these ornate depravity -
Buttress against the walls of the bent sky -
Come tumbling down in a dreadful cadence.
...My head is crowned, wronged by calumny
Of hideous thorns; my limbs, like pickled roots
That from slimy depth are brewed - as from
Porous bulbs, bleeding and boldly bruised....
Freshened and spotless lamb, face of Man
Stretched upon the vertices of destiny
The world's and ours - wholly transposed onto
The crucible of our own transfixion.
...Behold thee, hear thee with thy
Loped ears, steer thy untrained thought -
Seek in this divine countenance a saving
And salvaging message.