if nivellus’ master saw his Master now
would he weep that the wooden body of Christ
had been ravaged by time?
pale polychrome worn off
exposing weather-split richness of oak
like ravaged skin giving way to raw muscle
despite spikes withdrawn from hands still He hangs
the shadow of angel wings cast behind Him
on interrupting ash-rose of wall
His crown crumbles, odd contrast to vibrant red blood seemingly just coagulated
sinews stretch to point of snapping
for five centuries anguished eyes in gaunt face have been sealed shut
is this how He looked two millenia past?
master, your Christ is more beautiful today in His weathered agony
than you could ever have intended
did you forget the empty grave?
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