The Son

The Son

By Michael Watson

 

The pounding of the hammer
As the warmth of his blood
Trickled around his hand
Screaming in agony
As people watched him
From all across this land.

Seeing him raised
Upon that dreadful day
As beaten and bruised
Turns my stomach
And makes me turn away
In spiteful shame

Living a lie
Acting like something
I am not
Will he forgive me
Or turn me away

He lived and died
And yet lived again
I strive for perfection
So I can be like him