Old nails protrude
beyond the rood symbol,
spike the very air we breathe,
the mind to snare the heart –
to stop one thinking from the start;
to thrust his cross on old despair
was this the whole truth, hanging there?
Who built his house upon the sand –
some ancient politics, perhaps,
some early plot as sleight of hand,
but will we ever understand
his one great truth of merit
that all of life transforms to spirit?
As I turn these holy pages
I see his life betrayed, abused
yet see him smile in many sages.
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