Being the Jesus

Un-holy hands
washed clean of guilt

still dirty.

my spear dry
but the blood of my sin
is caked on
the shaft stained
and the bronze (almost) imperceptibly tarnished.

My heart beats the score
while the crescendo of salvation
crashes symbolic in my tears

The babygirl asks,
"Are you the Messiah?"

She is lithe and happy
as I lift her to my lips
whisper, "no child."

I kiss her,
put her down,
and she runsaway.

I adjust the thorns
and pick up the cross

The mountain is not so high
and the other criminals
not so terrible as me.

I pray for grace.