Unfurled ten fingers, like the tine in my palms, their reach a commandment from Sinai, cast out from tips an ending to the lineage of man’s own sinful failings.

To ages of ages I can not age, an illusion of growth by my own strength for when I lift to take a breath an inch I gain yet remains three spikes who’s blight retake height and tether me to suffocate.

My own craftsmanship disguised an executioners wicked friend with arms outstretched for embrace. And then bestowed a thorn capped fate a symbol of my own reformed alas a symbol of worldly hate.

With red dyed gopher, the hyssops sponge held by it’s loafer bequeathed drops of corruption beside the lips of that last drink erupted the drips of bitter sweet and broke the cry for forgiveness beamed for they know not what.

And on the cross a phrase of dread replaced the weeping savior, for could not he bring tear to shed when once sobbed for friendly resurrection solely. Death could not lament the man who’s salt was meant for holy.

By scent of unction donned salvific incorruption who’s perfumed stench of sulfur, made visible the fiery set of hells gates laid wide open.