by Peter Gallaher
I turned my back to him.
He only wanted to be my friend.
I had no time to listen
Instead I spread my arms wide
For everyone to see
I had something to offer.
They would know, appreciate me.
But, they nailed him against my back.
The brutal shock of nails through my wrists,
Cruel spikes through his ankles into mine.
Against my body now his flesh
Flayed and bloody hangs,
Thorns nesting into my shoulder,
Sweat and spittle sliding down my sides.
The other side of me is Christ
Hung in agony.
He passes me the bitter cup
Of his friendship now.
Can I drink the cup?
Can I be the tree
On which my redemption hangs?
Ask who is it holds the other up.