The sparrowhawk sees

The extreme angle

Of the most extreme

The iron nails

The bloody stream

In darkening sky

Amongst the thieves

The cross stood high

A tree bereft of leaves.

Hung now upon to die

One called teacher, rabbi

No crime convicted in his youth

Nailed here for speaking Truth.


Before, in the marbled halls

He was asked a question, “What is truth?”

Christ knew what Pilate thought

But did he see the doubt?

The search beyond the Roman gods,

The seven hills and winding rivers

The aromatic sacrifice he was taught

When young and chivalrous

The flashing knife

The cut that ended life

And temples stretching to the sky

Pilate sensing the patterns changed

In this scheme that he arranged

No Pharisee, no priestess

Could fix this grave injustice

The water is cold on his hands.


The sparrowhawk spies

The glint of bronze,

A corps of crimson tunics

And a hundred pairs of eyes

He hears the groans

The crack of broken bones

On the crosses here arrayed

Drenched in the blood of the flayed.

In an updraft he turns from them

These three here condemned.

The sky has darkened

As one says feebly:

“Forgive them Father, they know not what they are doing.”