Christ on the cross

Christ on the cross. The feet graze the soil.
The three wooden graves are of a same height.
Christ is not between the other two. He is third.
The black beard dangles on his chest.
The visage is not the visage in the pictures.
It is rough and Jewish. I cannot see it
and I will keep on searching for it until the
very last day of my footsteps on earth.
The shattered man suffers in silence.
The crown of thorns hurts him.
The mob's taunt cannot reach him,
the derision that has seen his agony so many times.
His own or someone else's. It doesn't matter.
Christ on the cross. He thinks in disconnected flashes
about the Kingdom that perhaps awaits him,
he thinks about a woman he could never call his own.
It is not given that he will ever approach theology,
the impenetrable Trinity, the gnostics,
the cathedrals, Occam's dagger,
Guthrum's conversion for the sword,
the Inquisition, the blood of martyrs,
the atrocious Cruzades, Juana de Arco,
the Vatican who sanctifies armies.
He knows he is not a god and that he is a man
who dies with the day. He doesn't care.
He cares about the hard iron of the nails.
He is not a Roman. He is not a Greek. He moans.
He has left behind splendid metaphors
and a doctrine of forgivenesss that can
nullify the past. (That sentence
was written by an Irish man in jail).
The soul seeks the end, hastily.
It is darker now. He has already died.
A fly moves about the still flesh.
What use can I find in this man's suffering
when I myself suffer today?


J.L.Borges.