The crucified is more defenseless than a bird
whose wings have been beaten of their symmetry
in love's descent; gathering pinions spurned.
He does not fly away until he dies, descends
for death, and love is the weight that lowers him
to pitiable state. From skin's fouled rents
sour spittle, light helplessly emanates:
face pouring face into wax of souls
that mangle him and murder; blood and light
going perfectly up through cruelties devised
with atoning wings: Filius ad Patrem.
Depths of exile past our own - coruscating
nether dark with its own defeat and death.
Upbraiding every naked nerve
until pouring out the soul-fruit’s pit,
cruciforming outward until it splits
in bleated-blood-bloom germination,
parts from broken lips: Pax Christi.