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Aug 2014
Back-stabber count your silver coins,
all thirty pieces do enjoy.
For thou have torn it from the ****
of he whom thou deem to destroy.

Conveyed before said holy male
who fears to take decision home.
Responsibility he doth bale,
forth-giving this to man of Rome.

Upon to Pilate do I see.
Should I relinquish my belief?
Will mine own peoples see me free
instead of murderer or thief?

In my defence nought do I speak
to only God do I ask praise.
Forgive me not for thou art week
and power to thee is but a phase.

Upon mine head a crown of thorns
secured firmly into place
as harassed by unfriendly scorn.
Holy blood, bathes holy face.

Barbs of metal scourge my all,
unlawful hurt do I withstand.
Burdened with weight I make a fall.
Samaritan doth lend a hand.

Rods of steel fix flesh and bone
to that of mans' wooden *****.
In painful agony, though not alone,
with Holy Father I connect.

Hoisted aloft on knoll of high.
Visible means to fear their weight.
Drawn upright, that I may die.
Design to clear of human slate.

Soon this pain will free of me.
My passing so that they may live.
Exalted father thou can see
this son gives all a son can give.
First printed in the 2011 Anthology. Suspended in Ink.
Christopher K Bayliss
Written by
Christopher K Bayliss  London. UK
(London. UK)   
       Amanda Kyara, ---, Christopher K Bayliss, ---, --- and 8 others
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