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JoelJosol

This Man

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JoelJosol

These punctures on the head, with blood dried, masked his face, 
were pierced by mockery and thousand insults weaved 
like spikes in thorn branches, his crown for his head.

This skin, these lesions, sank death closer to the bones.
These bruises came from lies so wicked enveloped in fists 
whose blows spared neither body nor limbs.

This back was disfigured, lacerated, and torn open 
by sheep bones of hate, each clawed itself into skin,
into flesh, with every flagellum's whip.

These ribs, this open fissure, jabbed deep by a spear, 
poured forth water of forgiveness, streaming 
to cleanse an earth, blood-soaked.

His time of death-
3 pm, Friday.

(NOTE: In time for Lent, I edited this poem and cleaned it up a bit.)


"Words are not things, and yet they are not non-things either." - Ann Lauterbach

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