The Crucifixion

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By TK Thomas

I never knew him before.
As if waiting for me,
he was standing on the steps
bearing all the despair of the world
when I opened the door to the street.
He led the way in long, confident strides.
He cautioned me not to step on
the lethal little pins of land mines
sowed in the yellow sunflower fields.
He held my trembling body close to him
when charred human flesh rained on us
from an aircraft downed by cannon ball.
He sang a dolorous psalm
at a grave of children and lame
and we wept together for their helpless souls.
Amidst the cries of unfed newborns
and wails of women for their men and little ones,
he broke down as we entered Gethsemane.
Its bombed olive trees stood like unfinished crosses
and the air smelled of burnt sulphur.
He sweated blood during the unbearable moments of
knowing himself as the sacrificial lamb,
while I slumbered on the cold, betraying indifference.
When he woke me up for the third time
I could hear the cries of approaching battle column.

( 27th Nov, 1996 )


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