Rusty Nails

If those spikes could speak,

What would their stories tell?

Would their voices come painfully weak?

Or a heartbreakingly yell?

Would they speak of their creation of fire?

Or the feel of rough Roman hands?

Those bloody stained spires.

Who had been used many times, in that dusty land?

Would they cry great tears?

Remembering the breaking bones, and veins?

Do they recall the murderous cheers?

Do they forget His pulsing pains?

Do they try to rid themselves of the blood?

Of the bits of sticky flesh,

The red colored mud.

The memory of agony afresh?

No, they revel in the screams,

The whispering breaths.

The ragged streams,

The echoing of death.

Rejoicing they cry,

As the nails pound His palm.

They heave a victorious sigh,

As the Prince’s yelps break the calm.

And when they are yanked out,

And see His limp eyes.

They celebrate with jolly shouts.

They beam with glee, as He dies.

Rusty nails claim their torture has won.

As they toast to darkness and hell.

A cheerful tune they hum,

To His sickening stench, a retched smell.

For let me tell you something,

Deep and True.

Those nails embody everything,

That is wrong about you.

So, burn, burn with Shame!

You evil spears!

Beg and bow before the wooden frame.

Repent with many tears.

For there is nothing you can do,

No deed that is great enough.

To clean the grime from you.

To make you polished and buffed.

Watch as His figure shadows above.

Feel His fingers squeeze tight.

As forgiving love,

Overwhelms you with all its might.

Consider those crafty finger’s tips.

Catch His concentrating look.

As He reshapes you through clenched lips.

Until you become a fishhook.

Carefully He carries the tool that Has made,

To a sea full of fish, a many.

In the water you are gently laid.

To gather them all, if any, or plenty.