There's a disconnection,
   because he doesn't know
where the line crosses
from crucification
   to melodrama.
The light plays
   on his face,
mysterious, illuminating,
  and all that,
but you pay attention
  to his wrists,
nailed to the slab
of wood in such a
   way as to incite
divine intervention.
  Cue the angelic choir.
Their voices are not rejoicing,
    though, but divinely wrathful
towards our imitating.