That bore its weight on an intersected bole,
Struggled to a task of dragging the fatal rack
To consummate a divine promise made.
Bloodied brows and tortured steps,
Climbing towards a destined fate,
Midst shouts of a stirred up rabble
Braying like a herd of prodded mules.
A tortuous trek on sharp granite blocks,
Each drop a deep gash on weakened knees,
Quivering muscles at the stabbing pain,
Keeping the mortal charade to the last.
The years have not assuaged the suffering
Inflicted atop the tallest knoll of a hilly rise.
Mankind’s ingratitude impaled deeply
On a martyr’s side and open palms.
More than that of the grieving mother,
Man needs to bring down by himself,
The mutilated lamb from the impious rood
As an expiation of sins before redemption.