The Mortal Messiah

My sweat mixes
With my burning blood -
A crimson streak across my face.
The air once had,
The crisp whiff of spring.
It is now fouled by my disgrace.

The instrument of
Death on my shoulders,
Is not meant for one man to lift.
Why must I
Endure this misery?
Am I not YOUR holy gift?

They punish me
Not for what I've done,
But for what I will do in time.
Am I not
The deliverer, father?
Where are my powers sublime?

I have endured
Much pain, father.
Why must I suffer this today?
The hill, it seems
So distant now,
And vicious are those on the way.

The crown of thorns,
Seeks refuge in my flesh.
If only I could cry, or grieve.
But I must not,
Lest I destroy,
The faith of those, who still believe.

I have arrived
And now I wait,
For the end of prolonged pain.
As they do their bidding,
I stare at a once
Clear sky, that now brings rain.

The light fades,
And so my life.
This silence is my eternal friend.
As a promise,
A messiah, I was born.
As a grateful mortal, will I end.

By,
Nikhil Menon