2-10 The Cyrenian


The Cyrenian


My ancestors spread the blood of lambs

Over their archways and on door jams.

The Death Angel freed us from Pharaoh’s sway.

We crossed the Red sea with wives and rams.


    .           .


I rode a ship from my home Cyrene,

Weary of bread and salted sardines

From Joppa I trudged to Jerusalem:

The Passover feast amid spring green.


The solders flanked three scourged, bleeding souls.

One with a wreath of thorns? Roman trolls!

Why do they yell “Crucify? Crucify?”

Like scarecrows, to hang on crossbeam poles?


The man fell under his blood-soaked beam.

“You there,” the soldier yelled with a scream,

“Pick it up and bring it to the Skull.”

I lugged it. His blood made me unclean.


I saw them wilt on that that murky day.

He looked at me, and then passed away.

Scoffers sneered and left. I stared, sick at heart.

Could this Son of Man be so displayed?