Good Friday

Are you were you man or myth? You died with bloody hands Our necks outstretched to see you suffer We nailed our indifference like an edict through your flesh We laughed at your tears Your naked body stretched and soiled For what foul crime have you summoned our wrath Political pawn or religious zealot You try to set fire the conscience of men We who need hunger to stomach the poor We who lay waste to your Kingdom of fools Speak you of love in a world kissed with hate Our sons and our daughters shall kill for your sake Tear down Jerusalem in a pious Crusade Shoot bullets in the hearts of Catholic and Jew, Protestant, Muslim Our race is our creed and color is blind To the cross of a sword Your name is a blasphemy on self-righteous lips Bleed, bleed if man you be Your daily deaths are nothing new And soon forgotten Truth is lost in Golgothic dust And myths are made to hide the sins Of those entombed Roll the stone away and let us see The light that burns Within. (Previously published in Manx Fiction, Dec. '99, Vol.1, No.6)