The Wounds.(Poem)

 
THE WOUNDS 
   The one who set the planets' tilt, 
   who painted earth with oceans, 
   who sowed the seas with vivid life, 
   who beckoned life from sea to land, 
   from land to air, 
   whose breath wakes us each morning, 
   calls us into being; 
   that same one became a man, 
   was one of us. 
   And this is what we did to him. 
 
   (i) 
 
   His wounds convict us. 
   These wounds are evidence. 
 
   Forensic. Photograph them. 
   Record every lesion, each abrasion. 
 
   First, before the nails, we crown him. 
   Not a crown of rose blooms, but of thorns. 
 
   Man of sorrows, this ring of wounds 
   becomes a string of ruby beads, 
 
   which slips from your forehead to your neck, 
   and marks out crimson paths for tears. 
 
   What is the weapon here? 
   A bramble's spiny armour? 
 
   A clutch of thorny briar meant 
   to guard ripe fruit, but twisted to a crown 
 
   to conjure berries from your brow? 
   No, the weapon is contempt, 
 
   and the tracery of its wounds 
   is in the bloodshot eyes of a friendless 
 
   man a thousand miles from home, 
   the eyes of an addict in the corner 
 
   of an empty bar all day, who despises herself 
   more than all who despise her. 
 
   Its shape is in the barbed wire 
   which keeps us out, and in. 
 
   (ii) 
 
   The second wound, and still no nails. 
   We order him to carry 
 
   a rough beam to the top of a hill. 
   Its weight unpicks the fabric of his shirt, 
 
   and breaks the skin of his shoulder. 
   It sows splinters as it rocks and chafes. 
 
   There is no cross yet. 
   Just the wood across his shoulder 
 
   and a tree growing on the hill. 
   He carries the crossbeam that will carry 
 
   him when it is fastened to that tall tree. 
   What is this tree? Olive? Vine? Twisted Holly? 
 
   There will be a crop. 
   This tree will not be barren. 
 
   Soon it will weigh heavy with strange fruit, 
   the body of its maker. 
 
   But now it is his burden, 
   and the shadow of its weight 
 
   falls on those who carry tired children 
   through dark forests, across rivers 
 
   and borders, in search of refuge. 
   Its tilt, and wounding edge are on 
 
   the shoulders of the sick, the trapped, 
   and all those who bear this unbearable tree. 
 
   (iii) 
 
   Here are the nails. Here are his arms 
   held wide open in a lost embrace. 
 
   Here is iron, driven through 
   the life-lines in his empty hands. Evidence. 
 
   These are the third and fourth wounds; 
   the ...