He Shed

His innocent blood
bloodied the hands of the guilty,
running down the grains of the rough-hewn

It was the crude oil of life,
darkening as the desert heat
baked the platelets sticky—
the soft ball stage—
then into the hard crack.
Candy for the crows.

The splatter pattern was more of a
slow drip,
a trickle
like the river Nile
from Heaven’s view—
an artery that had split,
even as it spilt.

This magic mix of
red and white blood cells
was transfused through hearts
to change them,
to blot out that which no other
human sacrifice ever could.

It was drank in a metaphorically
cannibalistic practice,
following a prayer,
a chant.
A woman’s blood would not have
be it internal
or menstrual.

This blood flowed not like wine or juice,
it was not sweet,
but iron-rich with the humanity
that was in Him—
this alien from another world,
who came back in time
from a world far more advanced—
to shed His blood,
as He had done
for numerous other earths.

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