The Same

Leah Acosta
It is the same.
The twisted strands . . . 
	of barbed wire, flesh now torn
	of plaited curls, freshly shorn
	of woven briars, crown of thorn.
The bruised reed . . . 
	freely blowing, sown in the distant sod
	trampled underfoot, by pris'ners heavy trod
	plucked, unbroken in the Son of God.
The laden hand . . . 
	wielding power, such cruelty spent beyond belief
	wielding shovels, forced to submit without reprieve
	wielding the Cross, the nail now ready to receive.
The parched lips . . . 
	truth-starved, glutted pow'r corrupts
	thirst not slaked, the bitter cup
	wine with hyssop, lifted up.
The bowed head . . . 
	The feral feeding, sanguine hate
	Back broken from the scapegoat weight.
	Lamb’s sacrifice, now consummate.
Yesterday, today, forever.
He Is the same.