by roy k autin
(dorset england)

Old nails protrude
beyond the rude symbol,
spike the very air we breathe,
the mind to snare the heart -
to stop one thinking from the start ;
to thrust his cross on old despair
was this the whole truth, hanging there ?
Who built his house upon the sand -
some ancient politics, perhaps,
some early plot as sleight of hand,
but will we ever understand
his one great truth of merit
that all of life transforms to spirit ?
As I turn these holy pages
I see his life betrayed, abused
yet see him smile in many sages.

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