i dreamt of Christ as though he was mocking me for losing my faith

i dream sacrilegious.

Christ stands before his people,

                    before my people,

                    before people without faces,

                                          without voices,

                                          without words.

i am omnipotent but sin has corroded my memory; why am i here?

there is a wound in my head where faith has left me and

there is a puncture in my lungs, a cracked rib, from breathing something other than holy righteousness, sacred flames.

i blow into his hands as he raises them;

the stigmata fester;

the faceless crowd opens a thousand hidden mouths and gospel comes pouring forth.

he makes some grand speech; i do not remember it.

words like saviour and father and love pepper his proclamations like dried blood on his crown of thorns.

(he no longer wears it

but his hair hangs thicker,

his brow cut sharper;

he has swallowed their cruelty and it has made him bitter.

but holy men cannot say unholy things;

he keeps talking, but his mouth never truly opens.)

two men stand by his side,

one kisses him and the other shakes his head.

i do not remember their clothes or how they spoke

but of the three of them,

the Nazareth-born scapegoat looked more human than all those men and faceless bodies combined.