Poetry

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I look from the wall near the Dung Gate. It is crowded. I can hardly move, squeezed, pushed, shoved, to and fro, I position myself to quickly gain a glimpse of what takes place on Golgotha. There is a cool damp mist in the air. Its scent is a commingling of darkness, death, thick like week old wet garbage. I hear the cries and wails in the distance. There is laughing and mocking. Thousands upon thousands are talking, shouting, whispering, and weeping all around me. Confusion, intrigue, panic, distress, sorrow, regret, these and other continuous thoughts bombard my mind like a wall that attempts to absorb the impacts of a wrecking ball. Suddenly, the mob turns silent, like the hushing sound after the crash of a wave that grows quiet. Then, faintly and assuredly, I hear the iron smack as anvil and hammer meet. The nails penetrate my heart. I see my crimson sins shed upon the cross beams that fasten the eternal sacrifice. The crowd around me screams. I reach toward Him; my lips move to avow my iniquities and need of compassion and expiation. I cannot hear myself. The people continually move, shift, bump and push me so as to gain a better vantage. I have seen long and enough. I hurriedly move away from the crowd. It feels like the sun has moved a quarter of the sky only to travel a couple hundred feet. Side step, forward step, back step, side step, side step, forward step, again and again. The people grow quite again. I can barely see the hill now in the hazy distance. There are whispers that He has breathed His last. The sky turns to a melancholy duskish black. The Earth quakes and then settles, as does my heart. With new hope, I choose to pursue Him and the image of the cross, engraved upon my soul. I am an on looker who witnessed the sacrifice of Incarnate love.

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