It is the day of sacrifice and atonement, but my flesh is the feast, and as they drive the nails fastidiously into our agape palms, blood runs like ravines on my fingers and toes, my brow is heavy with the fangs of desert roses, and I am Christ, just a molecule of his suffering, my scourged body stabbed by a lance blessed by the Maker, and it smells like iron and temptation as the burden of all sins falls onto my slit goat shoulders, was I Azazel? Samael sings in my ear as in our Passion I descend three days unto Hell, but the psalm fades, and I scoop up the thorns.
I come down from the Cross.
I walk on.
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The Diary of Mary Magdalene: Poems from Christ's Wife
PoetryMary Magdalene writes on her love for Christ. And follows him to Hell. And back again. (A collection of poems, prayers, and meditations from the year I walked with the Lord.)
