The Feast of Love

Battered and beaten body
Torn apart by lashing whip
A silent scream, a tear and gasps
Are seen through eyes tired and filled
With blood –
Drip and flood
The messy stone beneath
“39 lashes for the King” they scream as the mob stands round
40 would kill any man
And unrecognisable he, the man, stands.
He can’t stand so he falls
Held up by the cruel who love to see the popular fall.
Jealously they call for this man to be finished off once and for all
Nail Him,
Crucify this King.
How can a saviour die – he can’t even save himself?
Let alone you and let alone I.
On the road now to the hill,
Supported by shrill cries and mockery.

Yet not one word from this man
Is he powerless to curse?
Is his heart not filled with every bitterness the mind conceives?
Able to raise the dead but on a cross is raised instead?
His body torn, disfigured,
Like Broken Bread.
Blood pours out like party wine,
And a feast of love is what we find.

photo by Heo2035


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