no one would believe

they say you didn’t look like much
at the best of times
but now, your hair a nest of thorns
your naked, ravaged body strung
on a stake like meat for the ravens
no one would guess those skewered hands
had put sight in a blind man’s eyes
no one would think those battered feet
had walked upon the waves
and no one would believe
the intinerant teacher
from a backwater town had chosen
to hang there exposed
to die for the sins of the world
or that he was the son of God himself

but when did truth ever depend
on anyone’s belief?