A reworking of an old poem. I was thinking again about our redemption naratives, and how far they have travelled from love. Was the cross not ultimately about love? If not, what else? It was ALWAYS political, so I make no apology for associating this poem from the redemption story below it.

They scratched it on the walls of caves

Formed it from pure gold

Festooned it with trinkets

Marched it towards crusader carnage

Carved it in flesh

There it is in neon against the city sky

Worn at the neck of a Nazi soldier

Standing in serried ranks

Over massed graves

Burning in the black Southern night

Tattooed on the chest of hooded men

Who all know better

The shape of was made for murder

For pinning dissent like a butterfly

It points like a ragged sign towards disgrace

A rough pole to fly a flesh-flag of warning;

Conform, or this cross is for made for you

Simon (he said)

Carry my cross

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