and the crucifixion of Jesus Christ.
A cock crows with mocking validation —
Fear clubs the faithful
scattering them to disillusionment.
Demagogues posture and pose
seeking fault in the presence of Truth.
Their justice is blind to the Just.
Showers of spit and vociferous rage;
yesterday’s hero now naked spectacle;
shamed, abhorred —
Brutes count their rhythmic flagellations
and tire their fists in His flesh.
Humanity’s whipping boy.
His spike-dangled frame,
striped with blood rills of mercy
and broad cuts of grace,
jolts with atonement’s tremors.
And there we stand,
crowing like self-loving cocks —
once, twice, three times and more.
God-killers, we are.
Against our rebellious schemes
redemption’s momentum builds
tilting history on the fulcrum of His Cross.
From death’s grim hollow
this story crescendos to
a revelatory dawn —
when the cock will crow