The mysteries of divine irony:
That an ancient symbol of shame
In one day became the ultimate symbol of hope;
The price was a life so pure that shame fled.
The crying cross that weeps blood,
Lamenting at the silence of the Saints –
Silent in comfort, but powerfully verbal in persecution –
Blood-marked men wrung through the wheels of suffering
Their robes made white by a thorough washing in Blood.
The blood of the Innocent speaks accusations, seeking redress;
The Blood of the Holy speaks mercy, forever interceding;
The blood of the Saints that make drunk with indignation; –
The entirety of visible creation, stained and saturated with blood,
Till it is snuffed-out…
But the father of all ironies,
Is that Death is cheap – superficially speaking –
Bought for the taste of a fruit.
Because in reality Death is a cheat – his stated price,
Was just the initial installment for an eternal debt;
Kick-starting an economy more vicious than any known to man.
So that the price of Life now became death,
And healing had to be paid for in bloody stripes,
Halos of glory replaced by makeshift crown of thorns;
Making the price of eternal unimaginable glory,
Temporary excruciating suffering;
To the end that, the path to the expansive streets of gold
And the majestic pearly gates, is one so narrow
That even the righteous cannot walk it without help…
That the only way to be pronounced guiltless,
Is to be gloriously and testifiably Bloodstained.