He clings to the cross

As we try to pull him off

We slide out the nails

Down the blackboard

That failed to boast truths

To youths who needed them most


She weeps on her knees

We see a child on a beach and freeze

We push the rolling stone

Back up the hill

For it wasn’t us who sinned

We only sing in December


And it roars a crack through the world

We play hopscotch unspoiled

We the children

Dethroning His turmoil

Yet when uncoiled we crack

And if we could go back


Play Thomas instead, feel the blood noose our fists

Would we loosen his wrists?

Would we unpick his thorns?

Or leave the nails untouched

Those small iron trophies of love

That rust.

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