breathless counts
two rests before the discord of the cross
Harvey S. Mozolak

i.
the heavy mallet pounded
spikes pointed thrice
slicing into his hands
and Jesus stretched himself out
on the wood raft above our flood
now his feet anchored
waves of sweat
pooled in the hollows of his cheeks
rivulets of blood from the nest of pain
crimsoning them
searing his eyes with suffering
by these he sees all
from this last mast

ii.
not fisted
palms open in pouring
the Father’s hand is withdrawn
but not his ear
the wind of the Spirit dries his lips
but the fever that boils
the blood on his brow
is a holiness cauterizing
the world at noon
in the Son who has left heaven
far from the shade of the womb of the woman
now as near and under
the shadow of sin and its fallen race