My Jesus
does not shout his father's name
in a victor-trodden written page
in scenes atop mass unmarked graves.

My Jesus
does not begin sermons
preaching the "White Man's Burden"
treating a "Savage" as ill vermin.

My Jesus
does not parade down busy streets
holding signs of scorn and deceit
casting dour faces in their fallacy.

My Jesus
cries out his father's name
from a splintered cross in agonizing pain
his blood the payment of sin washed away.

My Jesus
tore the holy temple curtain
lifting the veil of the voyeurs uncertain
washing their ***** feet a humbling servant.

My Jesus
In the crowds victim to the zealots' decree
Widens his arms in the wake of their hypocrisy
He calls them all to him, tears streaming down his cheeks.