He was a man of sandal
And staff. Befriending tax collectors and prostitutes.
He climbed the mountain
And prayed in the gardens of Jerusalem.
He was a man of simple needs
Water, bread and the daily catch of fish.
And yet the simplicity of his virtue
Still goes far and wide, like the screeching
Voice of a wren, and the nest he built
Still flourishes on the seven hills in Rome.
It is transcendent, that the echo of Jesus still haunts
The consciences caught in grunge of sin.
And it must be innerving to the devil, the snake,
How a dead man still laughs
From the vantage point on top of a cross
Of a skull cap hill.