We Christians are condemned
Ever to be crucified.
It is our binding and our breaking.
It is our only hope and home.
It is our only exaltation.
There, upon the tree,
We must be mocked and pierced.
We must thirst and bleed.
The story told repeats,
And everywhere we turn,
The wide arms of wood embrace us.
We are haunted by its shadow,
The dark side of our salvation.
It is our template, our blueprint.
It is the bones, and we the flesh.
We mold around it, and it stretches us.
There is no escape, no turning away.
We flee from point to point
And still, it pursues, and pervades.
We are the cross-bearers, “crusaders”.
We are destined to be slain and reborn.
Our body is not our own to clutch.
Like bread, it must be broken to feed.
Our blood is not our own to hold.
Like a chalice, it must be poured for drink.
The yearnings of the universe well up
And we enter the mystery of the quenching.
The Word that is spoken and made Man,
Who bears the weight of our iniquity.
And goes down into the bowels of hell.
We are woven through His ribs,
Dying heart, squeezed shut lungs.
We are His body now, the sacramental seal
That imprints itself upon the melting world,
And grants it pardon, and grants it peace.