Sometimes I've wondered about our Christ on the cross,
whether he committed suicide by Romans,
their hands washed of the blood of this self-loathing Jew
they dressed with the scornful crown of thorns. In the pew,
as a child, the sermons would echo of omens,
and I'd look up at the stained glass light at a loss.
Now, I'm a tired old man without resources,
with no childhood memories I wish to retain,
and love was not the Messiah for very long.
At least, that's what I tell myself, but could be wrong.
There are moments of terrible splendor, when pain
and suffering are relieved by graceful forces.
I doubt I'll ever again see that stained glass light,
but I will not forsake or wash my hands tonight.
