Blood is kept hot on the sand;

The hell-stench of camel flesh

And vinegar kept us awake.

There is no glory in your death

Hands raised, rough and readied

By carpenter's work and miracles

Only to have nails driven though

Pinning a frail human ugliness

To a splintered timber gibbet.

You burn in the mind of ages

Robed and transcendent

Philosopher made God

With an absent Host above,

Cherubim collecting the blood

We saw staining wood black;

The avatar of your killers' empire

History's forgotten man.