And if farther in time your soul would fly what would you see, but more hate and the hoard of poor and the tortured who bleed. And by the cross raise Love's redeeming Grace. The cross drags. A frightened child stares. Moist round eyes gather the crude spectacle of death- a bleeding struggling weakened Son.
Confused tears surge as the maniacal procession bellows past in sport and fun.
With horror this child glimpses your pained face and wonders to what end loud humans race. That is what the soldiers did. You've beat him well, straight odds he dies this street. Ha, fine, I'll get your money later then. It offends them.