Behold it slide on to the head and dig into the skin.
It is a slick staff sliding through the dry skin desert rock.
But for perspective. And there is no perspective.
Watch this water of life well up amidst the beat down baren-ness.
The water sprang up in the desert
the blood runs down his face.
He is glory.
But for the chronology. And everything happens at once.
There is a rivulet that disapears.
Escaping, as it does to the Great Before and the Here aftter.
The blood runs down his face in the garden.
The sleeping men do not understand.
And they would not. Even if they had stayed awake.
That same blood fills up a cup that he raised before.
He would ask, if it was His Will, that the cup be taken away.
But he bled, a spring in the desert.
And later and before
not taken away–
would be raised to his friends lips.
It is the crown
because it is the crown of thorns.
It is blood and water
It is finished.
Because it is still going on.