You have the body of Jesus
strung up on the cross for everyone to see,
but it's only me you've sacrificed for.
Pale and thin, rib bones begin
right above the indent in your stomach.
I've cut you down from your cross,
no longer an example of imperfection.
I'll kiss the wounds left on your side by soldiers,
I'll kiss the wounds left on your hands by myself.
Lay you onto stone, your skin stays smooth
the cold no longer will effect you.
Remove all the light, wash off the dried blood
clean the dirt from your knees, that tears have turned to mud
put you to rest, bare and mute.
I'm sweating like I've walked for miles
in your boots.
I'd walk more
if it meant relieving the pressure of the cross you once bore.