we drove nails into His wrists,
air reeking of animal remains and criminal bodies piled next to the horse trough; yet,
through Him, all things are made.

all things—even the rats waiting below the cross,
hoping flesh of their Creator would fall to the ground as
we drove nails into His wrists,

but he hung long enough to stare into the thief’s blue eyes
whispering you will be with me—in filth and paradise:
through Him, all things are made.

the Centurion held Jesus against the cross thinking of his own son—born yesterday:
baby covered in life-filled blood and mucus like Jesus then, in near death; still,
we drove nails into His wrists,

and watched the Son of God die after
we drove nails into His wrists.
Through Him, all things are Redeemed.

Listen to a discussion about this poem on the Reformed Journal Podcast.