A world without light, a world without breath, the light of Nazareth, the high priests and their golden sun-bathed blasphemy, they remind me of the little evil black birds that like to perch on my old wooden and rickety fence, all familiar with suffering from Genesis to Revelations.
My horses and how they love to run like soldiers among the dead, gallant and the pasture soft and sodden with heavy, dolorous rain, the red and orange fox among the hillside brush watching like the Romans' crucified slaves, the eyeless women and dying bodies nailed to the crude, Christ-less crucifix, their eyes never leave me, and they cannot look away.
A tomb and a garden, spices and stones that move. They condemn me, pierce me and bruise me badly. I am worthy of death. From the clouds of Heaven, God has given me this taciturn smile, my prophesized execution, come and go with me, everyone gets their silver, vinegar for your thirst, centuries among the flock, the butchered and divine, daylight to darkness, the trauma and sad evils of humanity, judge me by your laws, throw your stones, use your rope and cross for the murder, spit and mock, scourge and crown, a King. Your King. By these stripes and holy blood, you are healed. Know this, by these wounds and torn skin, you are healed, behold the light of life, it comes from Christ.