Wednesday, 4 June 2014

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”