A dark hour scuffle as a sword is swung, a soldier cries out, clutching his ear.
Another soldier hefts a hammer, iron splinters bone, palm pierced, flesh meets wood.
And yet another soldier, yet another sword swung high, as he spears the side of the One he’d helpfully labelled ‘King of the Jews’ for the passers-by and the horror-seekers. He grunts in satisfaction as death is confirmed; as if in doing so he can have the last word.
cross (2019). (iPhone image)
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