It hurts me to think,
plagues me even,
to think of Jesus.
It does not matter your belief in Christ.
He was a real person,
persecuted for loving.
He was put painfully on the cross,
strewn and left to die.
The thought sit heavy in my heart,
that because he was the son of a carpender,
he may have smelt the wood of the cross
and briefly thought of home.
The very thing he died on,
reminded him solemnly of the family
he was leaving behind.
The family he had shapen,
lost their father.
No one talks about that.
All they want to speak of is his noble sacrifice,
but they never utter about the grief it made,
about all the people he left behind,
all the fear he felt.
He knew it was his duty,
to be a martyr,
but it doesn’t mean he wanted it.
Apr 1
Apr 1, 2026 at 12:45 PM UTC
It hurts me to think,
plagues me even,
to think of Jesus.
It does not matter your belief in Christ.
He was a real person,
persecuted for loving.
He was put painfully on the cross,
strewn and left to die.
The thought sit heavy in my heart,
that because he was the son of a carpender,
he may have smelt the wood of the cross
and briefly thought of home.
The very thing he died on,
reminded him solemnly of the family
he was leaving behind.
The family he had shapen,
lost their father.
No one talks about that.
All they want to speak of is his noble sacrifice,
but they never utter about the grief it made,
about all the people he left behind,
all the fear he felt.
He knew it was his duty,
to be a martyr,
but it doesn’t mean he wanted it.
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