Beckett: Poetry – No. 1732, Good Friday II

I wrote this for Good Friday 2019 and forgot to post it! So here it is, a few months late. Sorry!

Imagine your worst day.
Now multiply it by infinity,
adding a waterfall of blood
with ineffable agony.

The cat of nine tails
was cast into His skin,
sank into His muscle,
and tore out bone with it.

Thorns from an acacia tree
slowly pierced into His skull,
blood running into His eyes,
the whole world turning red.

He could not carry His own cross,
like everyone else could,
pain taking its heavy toll
and shock its weighty effect.

Thick, dirty nails pierced
through the tiny bones and nerves
of His wrists and ankles,
holding His weight upon the cross.

His ribs collapsing upon His lungs,
He still managed to hold conversation
with His disciple John to care for His mother, —
no easy task during suffocation.

Finally, He cries out, "Τετέλεσται," —
"It is finished," —
His suffering ended,
dying for all mankind.

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