When I was but a child
I was hewn upon the cross
Paying penance in hammered nail
To keep from wandering, lost

For if my feet, they couldn’t stray,
Would commit no more to sin-
Except for that Original,
And the blot that lay within

Blinking, blood-blind eyes
Burned by brightest Son-
Would fail to meet the gaze
Under weight of crimes
I’ve only yet to’ve done

But soon became apparent
Being culled to feed the Wood-
Castigated;
Plumb, yet prostrate,
Would do me none for good

So,
Being not a martyr,
Or slave to other’s whims,
I set about to descend, and
Form and fashion, wood to bridge
Over the ocean of my sins

To free phalange from o’er spike
And leave a shining line-
To tread an unknown passage,
And seek what kismet mine-

Unburdened by the weight
Others sought upon to brand-
Reaching out, toward the Sun
Cupping it, softly
In my red right hand