a puddle began to form beneath him, at the base of the tree. a puddle of dirty red liquid spilled from enough cuts to make him unrecognizable even to his momma. it poured out of him, from his scalp and his ears, his cheeks and his jawline where they ripped out his beard. it ran from his shoulders and arms that were torn open by the beatings, his chest and back, where the muscles lay exposed from the whips. from his waist, hips, thighs, calves, and everything in between it ran down, as if trying to satisfy the thirst of the earth below him. from his perforated hands and feet it fled his body, turning the wood beneath him an ugly black-brown.
his momma watched the blood of her son leave his body just as quickly as her tears left hers, not yet knowing how great a sight she witnessed. the man they made carry the tree for him got some on his clothes, stains that he'd probably never get out. the thorns they shoved on his head dripped with his blood, it ran from his nose like a faucet not turned all the way off. he spoke around it as it pooled in his mouth, his lips and gums mashed from their fists and feet.
at the end it streamed out around a spear they stuck in him to make sure he was good and dead.
that blood they beat out him, that blood that poured out of the wounds he carried, that blood that his heart sent pulsing around his body, that blood that soaked the earth beneath him...
that blood makes me clean, and will never fail me.
eph. 1:7, heb. 9:12, rom. 5:9
5.04.2008
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