I am a prideful, stubborn, stiff-necked beast
unbroken, redeemed by lamb sacrifice,
who took the lash three times yet stayed unmoved,
seeing the sin before the sinner until
Balaam could confess to the Lord’s Angel
blocking his path in that narrowing space.
Thirty-five years yon I will bear you to
beyond the wide gates of Jerusalem
exultations, fronds, cloaks, hallelujahs
obscuring the still narrow door to you
truly proudly proclaiming beyond David’s claim
that you are the son after God’s own heart.
Before I bore Mary to Bethlehem,
plowed the field when the steady oxen fell;
carried bread to market, to the temple steps;
doing kind, good, faithful, trodding work in
preparation to bear heaven’s king so
no man near dare covet me from your side.
“Pray, little one”, you said. “Be at peace, now.”
when I sensed a prophecy of your trial,
your scourging, your crucifixion soon near.
I begged you, “Please, let me carry your cross,
at least to the top of yon horrid hill.”
“You taught well. Micron, I can bear it now.”
Seven days yon, I followed behind you,
turning my head away when the nails pierced,
braying a thunderclap that pierced forever
going back to Adam, forward to the end,
until your shadow finished passed the clouds
the sun revealing your cross on my back.