A man stands up upon a cross, offers blood for me.

This act means more to me than everywhere I’ve been, this love is sacrosanct, the man my saviour. This hill so high so often climbed

I watch Him there (He’s always there) feel the love, the blood, the rain. This is the reason I have lived.

Wood hacked off and standing, your hands nail pierced and hanging. Finally I come here with the purpose in mind of paying respect at the foot of this, no, of the cross.

What do you want me to do?

I want to separate myself from this crowd that walked with and abandoned you, when my every step is a step too far, I want.

Your body part dead and alive now, bits of skin like cracked off paint, mostly maimed.

A crown of thorns, what did they do to you? Your legs are sodden in blood and your chest heaves out the rest. I come to this cross clothes clean, hands open, so I try to bloody my mind in burdens. I can’t take you in, or try to live you out, so I’ll make myself an apparition half like me and half like you, on the cross. You see, I want the crown, but not the thorns.

My hurt and bleeding saviour with arms as wide as love. I haven’t known for a long time what to say, but you know, you know. Your fingers rush through my memories press on my confessions, and you took them all out the way so I could touch you back. I don’t understand you. But your grace is the puzzle my piece of history fits. And your love, your love…

Your drop of blood it touches me and trickles down my chest, cleaning my clothes. Your ancient tortured loving cries that brought me here and brought the crowd. I wanted to shout out ‘What shall I do’ but only whimpered ‘help me’ and you did. My clothes cleaned, my focus changed, my life changed and everything is done for me everything is cross.