salvation

The Linen of my dress bathes in His sacrifice,

as His blood beads from brow to ankle.

The sides of His broken body punctured,

as His ichor dripped alongside water.

He bore out pain,

our agony,

the consequence of every evil, wicked thought conceived.

Kneeling in His death,

my talus nestled in the stones fracture,

I turn and ask:

How do we not know what we’ve done?

As my body curdled,

eyes drowning in saltwater,

He said,

”Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.”

---

It is finished.

- A.D.