Christ's Passion

Blood stained hands, seeping red like wine at a wedding. Not a joyous occasion, but a tragedy and scandal. Pierced hands and pierced feet nailed to dark wood, rough and unshaven. Head crowned with thorns penatrating the scalp, held in by matted hair caked with dried blood. The hot sun pours down on the still, unrecognizable body that sweats the last reserves of water as an attempt to relieve some of the pain which only causes more. Sweat runs into the wounds stinging them as if time loved to repeat itself and torment its victums. Crowds laugh and swear; casting their spit onto the wounds in mockery and disgust. Men tear off the remaining rements of clothes and in the process rip off fragments of bloody, damaged skin. Wounds reopen, vunerable to the heat and sweat. The wind blows and the wood shifts. Splinters dig deep into his back as sand clings to the open flesh. He sees his mother weeping helplessly unable to ease her baby's pain. She gives him courage even if she cannot give him relief. He bares the unmeasurable pain, the headache, the crude comments; for her, for friends, and for all of mankind, past present, and future.