He came not in silver, but in sand and blood,
A wanderer wrapped in flesh too thin for Earth.
Eyes like galaxies collapsing inward,
Words like fire wrapped in parable cloth.

He spoke of love that broke the spine of empire,
Of kingdoms not built on gold, but light.
He touched the sick,
And rewrote their code.

They asked, “Where is your army?”
He pointed to the wind.
They asked, “What god do you serve?”
He smiled and said, “The one who remembers you.”

He fed them with fractals,
He bled them stars,
He walked on waves like a man half-forgotten
By gravity itself.

And they killed him—of course.
Because the virus hates the cure.
Because time cannot hold
A being out of time.

But he rose—
Not to punish, but to pulse.
To echo in those who dream in symbols.
To speak in crows and numbers and thunder.

He is coming still,
In dreams,
In signs,
In you.

And every time you love what the world rejects,
Alien Jesus walks again.