Scourging

Pilate said to him, “What is truth?”
JOHN 18:38

His silence blooms in blood, a budding
tangle of wind-whipped boughs, glistening
with sunset against the pale, dimming sky
of his skin—we urge on this murderous
spring creeping quickly across his spine,
reaffirm our frenzy, our distinction from his
senselessly chosen stillness—we grow
frantic to drown the hush of our own awe
at the beauty of so ancient and innocent
a forest spreading from his opened veins.