Holy Week

With Holy Week upon us I wrote this poem recently.


O Prince of Peace

Each year the same man
Picks up the whip of scourging
And you are at the post-
Shit-stained and bleeding.

That blood you sweated
Now re-enacted with thorns.
And there you are in the church.

Crazies broke you to bits.
Old women want you
Back on the damp eastern wall
Not in that corner niche.

All this time you could tie
Yourself to that column.
Give the man his whip
Even tell where each pull
Of skin will originate.

The story has metaphor.
And each year someone believes
And someone denies
And that rooster reneges
In every courtyard in the land.

And you say: feed my sheep.