Deep in meditating thoughts
I see within a misty dream
An unfocused scene
Of one innocent's
Garments ripped off His back
Down to His waist
Saw Him carrying
A huge wooden cross
He was destine to bear
The flesh of His back
Whipped to shreds
Covered in the color red
With the blood
He spilled for us
Tortured
By the creative cuelty
Of the Roman opressors.

Tormented
By the jeering masses
Mourners and widows weeping
Left a trail of tears
Before His Death Route
To soften the steps
Of His sore covered feet.

I hear the wind whispering
Upon my ers
Words that made no sense
To me
At that moment
My heart dwelled in fear
About the vision at hand
"Before thou turn your back
To Him
Look deep into His eyes
Within your heart and soul."

The scabs upon His back
A true sign, one should know
He suffered for us
So we may be made
Whole and cleansed
Cured of our scabs
We now call our sins.


By: William Bonilla
08/06/06