Christmas on the 8th Day of July

Dangling from a cross I looked straight into the Sun.

“Father, my passion to save them has turned me into a martyr of humiliation.”

I couldn’t help but notice some of my disciples in the crowd.

“Father, my passion to save them has turned me into a martyr of humiliation.”

Alone, in humility, I look into the sun;  already in pain, it burns my eyes. Through the blindness, I can see my mother Lisa crying and bruised from her own battles to raise me. 

She’s too weak to save me for she too must suffer for the burdens of all women.

Dangling next to prisoners and con artist I can hear an angel telling me that I do not deserve this death, but it is a burden that I must bear.

In the distance I see the politicians who ordered my death. They exchange votes and beat the war drums.

Beaten and abused, I see many of my ex female friends in the crowd.

What is gold? What is ambition? What does it mean to live and suffer with the same burden as Christ?

Looking into the crowd I scream, “Father forgive them for they know not what they do.”

For them I must die and rise on the 8th day.

Laced in a purple gown, I take my last look into the sun as my soul rises into the light, I sit next to my father in the kingdom of heaven while the crows and blackbirds feast off of my lifeless flesh hanging from the cross on earth.

For the dead, Christ, and I, along with the children of God shall rise again.

Together, we defeated death and our gift was eternal life.

I could hear God my father say, “Happy Birthday Son, welcome home, it took over 2000 years to prepare this place for you and the rest of your innocent brothers and sisters.”

We kindly accept our gift.

Christmas on the 8th day of July.