What was he
But a lean frame
Clothed in blood
And sweat
And
spit
Swooning
On tired feet
Weighed down
By ringed spikes
And a coloured robe
Flesh hanging
In loose shreds
Bones exposed
Eyes sunken
Face ashen?
What was he
But a sorry sight
Battered
Bruised
Torn
Mirroring
The state
Of our spirits
Bound
By the bonds
that were ours?
What was he
our dying lord
Praying
With breath
He couldn’t afford?
On the count
Of three
His words
Echo
In our hearts
As he steps
Out
From death’s bands
Brought forth
From the mortal tomb
“See…
I make all things new”
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