Splayed

I see your moment now,
From an angle,
From a vantage I'd never expected,
Penned as it was,
Pinned as you were,

Like an insect in museum,
In a glass box,
The glass box,
With the  dark glass of scripture,
Translated from flesh to word,
to convey to me,
What my heart cannot conceive,
The word a window through which I peer,

At times in wonder and fascination,
At times in revulsion,
Drawn to look,
Like I am to some rabbit guts,
As I cycle past the carnage.

But not as in a museum,
Not as with insect;
This specimen is alive,
Squirming,
Pivoting on nine inch pins,
An uncomfy cross,
The pins through palms,
Like pens nail it down,
For the gospel writers,

He is living here in this moment,
It is no scene of death,
It is the death that will never die,
He is pinned to that wooden frame,
For all to see,
Splayed,

Arms open,
Like it or not,
"Here I am",
A forced offering of embrace,
To which he gave himself,
For better,
For worse,

Arms open to receive,
All hurled insults,
As the spit runs down his face,
His shame,
And ours,
Displayed for all,
Exposed,
Splayed,

And that loincloth,
That humanity, in fake modesty, placed
For the more sensitive visitors,
To this living museum of scripture,
That loincloth,
Was never there.

Here I am,
Splayed,
Displayed,
Look at me,
Look at me,
Now,
Through windows of history,

Here I am, hanging here,
All that is man,
All that is God,
In this shop window darkly,
Spit polish with your sleeve,
Rub away the grime of mystery,

Splayed,
Your fear,
Mob mentality,
Mob justice,
Rebellion,
Hate,
Greed,
Shame,
Splayed,

The depths of Gods love,
The unending mercy of his grace,
As they spat and cursed,
They missed the expression on his face,
His infuriating, forgiving Smile,
Displayed,
Splayed,

The visible image of the invisible.