The Sword

The Sword

The old words cry out
as your wounds
pour forth your spirit:

The sword you use to pierce another
must first pass through
your own heart.

Dismas groans in rebuke,
“We murderers, we deserve to die,
but this man is innocent.”

The Most High cries,
“The blood of Abel–your brother, Abel–
cries out to me from the ground.”

The bulls of Bashan
encompass you about,
the bulls, their mouths open.

You see me looking upon you.
He who lives by the sword
shall die by the sword.

In seeing you, I see me.
You hang on that tree
because I am your murderer.

Forgive me, for I know not
what I do. At that hour, I have no sword
but your Cross, and by this

I, too, shall die–

begging, oh innocent one,
to be remembered
in your kingdom.