Poem: “Ninth Station”

by Matthew B. Rose on Mar 17, 2013 in Poetry

Ninth Station
Good Friday

Why doesn’t he stay there?
It’s good for him, the old dusty air.
Kings of Kings have trodden here,
Holding dear
Sacred relics of God and Man,
Keeping them hidden, doing what they can to help God.
No, this man won’t enjoy the dirt.
He will not rest, His loins are girt.
Spit now, hit him hard,
Split his back, make it shards
Of broken glass.
This stubborn ass
Is making me mad.
Let’s kill him here, it’s not that bad
No.
Go.
We are to see he makes it there.
Executions are really not fair,
Working hard, little pay,
Hearing convicts whine half the day
Well, now he’s getting up.
Marcus, hand me that cup.
I’ll splash some water on his face.
No man earned such a disgrace.
And on we go; no we’ll see
What Hell awaits us on top of Calvary.

Matthew B. Rose