This prose-poem is NOT about Jesus, but rather about any one of the countless thousands who were routinely ordered to die that way. Every other stanza should be in italics as such are reflections interspersed into the present.


Crux Immissa
the final journey



We were herded like goats along that dark cobbled passage. The weaker ones amongst us encouraged to scurry by the blows and jibes of metal men – tormentors in a hurry.

Yet, time had been taken whilst they made love to our misery: Exercising cudgels and flagrums on flesh contoured... weeping. Their bloody passion scored deep. Whose crimes were really the worst – ours or theirs?

The courtyard of bright light pulled us onward. In the inadequacy of our misery, urine, dirt, and blood, a new play began to unfold: Sunlight, leering faces, and distant crucifixes all danced on the stage of confusion.

I had once watched a carpenter making a cross. Observing how studiously he had arranged matters so as to fashion a short protruding sedile spike from a frail bough: The victim’s tortuous support, and brief respite from death.

Swimming in dust under the weight of timber–loaded pain; blinded by daylight and stinging sweat, hair wrenched out I was dragged upwards, legs long lost of hope. A dog scurried away in terror, but I was not sure whether it was fear or pity I saw locked in its eyes.

How long would I take to die? If too long no doubt I would be skewered off my perch, legs smashed to prevent my attempted return: My executioners, in their majesty, giving full reign to their caprice and sadism.

I stumble forward, frozen in cold horror, full legion in timelessness. I stretch each moment, the now, for ever. This must be a nightmare. Oh God, please let me wake up!

I once heard how, after the fall, the chest reaches towards heaven. Panting, aching for breath as those below gasp in sympathetic expectation. (Those above making ready their judgement). Darkness and suffocation shrouding the victim’s repose. Am I brave enough to end it quickly? Do I really have that much courage?

We pass others along the road, raised low in crucifixion within situ so cruel: Too low to escape sleepless torment, and too low to reach for God and cry for mercy. Frail words of comfort fall on bruised ears, from men not yet lost within their death. I feel that I know them well.

***

c. Wackford, 2016

Not sure which one you're speaking of here..
but they're pretty much all the same..

Sher_Tenn,

My poem is about any unknown, just as I stated in my preamble.

You state that 'they're pretty much all the same.' How so?

Ancient writings reveal that crucifictions had numerous variations ranging from inverted crucifictions (crucifying upsidedown,)breaking or not of limbs, pre-crucificion beatings or not, stake or cross, tied or nailed, having to drag a 300 lbs. stake to the site or not...I could go on for several paragraphs.

Anyway, I await your further observations with interest.

I'm a military history buff.. so my thoughts went to wars..
The lines below brought me to the trenches of WWI. The
'metal men' I took to be Generals.. (you might enjoy
C.S. Forester's 'The General')

> We were herded like goats along that dark cobbled passage.
> jibes of metal men –

Then on to WWI gas attacks.. used by both sides..
Segued to Vietnam.. then WWII (gas chambers and A-bombs)
> Whose crimes were really the worst – ours or theirs?

Sher

Sher_Tenn,

We must get together sometime for bayonet practice.

Sincerely,
Wackford

Butt stroke..
Slash down..
Lunge..
Recover..

My Dad was a young recruit, sent to Washington (1932) to handle the
Bonus Marchers.. He would re-live that as above.. many times as I recall in my childhood.. never actually looking at me..

Only one time did he say
'The ones in front.. they couldn't get out of the way'

From Wiki: President Herbert Hoover ordered the army to clear the veterans' campsite. Army Chief of Staff General Douglas MacArthur commanded the infantry and cavalry supported by six tanks. The Bonus Army marchers with their wives and children were driven out, and their shelters and belongings burned.

In a previous life (believe it or not - likely not) as one opponent came in with bayonet I would side step right (I was left handed then)
and slash at their throat with my own fixed bayonet. I recall their look of shock and horror! It all came back to me after past life regression hypnosis when I played the session tape back.

Eventually I died in a gas attack. Bayonets can't handle that.

Possibly teed me up for being vegan in this incarnation?

Great stuff for a dating site. Maybe some of the ladies did some killing too? Almost certainly yes. Possibly recall it as they eat their rare-cooked Sunday beef?