I.N.R.I
Cast me up on your crucifix and Color me the martyr, son of a father
To doubtful minds and sinful bodies.
The Sky and the wind howl of death,
While the sea frolics with pride at the shore
As I make my bed of wood and blood and steel.
Righteous men are found only in tales
And paintings, falsely depicted if at all.
The heart of man is a twisted terrain
I am Christ of St John, strung up high and proud.
Left for the mountains to gawk at my demise
And the soil to swallow up my frail physique.
In The shadow of a god ignored; Holy bastard at the tips of swords And spears, my shriveling flesh absorbs.
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