RANSOM

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”