The Crucifixion
The crowd’s spits and yells as you walk by.
You hang your head down and begin to cry.
The people you have made have turned against you.
Little do they know that they are tragically being blessed by you.
You walk up the hill rocks cutting your feet, a single raindrop runs down your cheek.
You reach the top and bow your head.
The wine is your blood, the body is the bread.
You slowly rise up and cry out in pain.
Atop of your cross reads “King of the Jews” in a wooden frame.
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