Behold the man, your king, your ravaged Christ,
a savage Christ, a Christ who bleeds, who smells.
All you who by his kingdom were enticed
behold a king the sight of whom repels:
those jewels that ring his face are Roman spit;
the purple of his cape does well befit
a man whose crimson bruises shine like scales;
whose hands and feet are crying out for nails.
Behold the crowning touch of my charade:
a ring of thorns to grace his lordly brow,
a diadem his kingship to avow
as he to Golgotha pursues his dull parade.
We’ll lift him high then on his wooden throne,
and all of nature torn with grief shall groan.
Jeffrey Essmann is an essayist and poet living in New York. His poetry has appeared in numerous magazines and literary journals, among them Dappled Things, the St. Austin Review, Amethyst Review, Pensive Journal, Forma Journal, The Society of Classical Poets, and various venues of the Benedictine monastery with which he is an oblate. He is editor of The Catholic Poetry Room.