A man is lead to his death

He lets not a word slip

He watches as the people he loves

Scream for his death

Silently his gaze passes over them all

Some angry, some mocking, and a few who know what is being lost

He is whipped; the flesh torn from his back

Muscles are ripped apart as he is painted in blood

Weakened and unsteady he is forced to carry the instrument of his death

Heavy wood pulls at his arms as he takes one step at a time

He drops to his knees and lets the burned fall

They drag him to his feet at the top of the hill

Laughing and mocking they pierce his hands with thick nails

They pin his limbs to the wood and force it upright

Arms spread and held in place he can only look

Look as those who used to sing of his name

Spit in his wounds

Going in and out of consciousness

He gasps instructions to friends and family

Hours pass as he hangs above a pool of blood

His blood that poured out

At last, with a cry of pain, he gives up his spirit

The flow of blood stops

But in death he has peace

He died for _them _

And his story is not over

This is how his bleeding washed us clean