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How often did you pass that hill

Where the bodies hung in agony,

Sweating out their final gasps, until

Death restored an unsought harmony?

When did you first realise that there,

Nailed to a cross, the truth might slowly dawn

That you had failed, shouting in bleak despair,

While bored squaddies stand about and yawn?

Where then was the hope that had inspired

Three years of teaching, though the restless mob

Were more aroused by miracles than fired

By thoughts of new beginnings or of God?

            As you were dying, did you really see

            That you were doing this because of me?

Brian Hick September 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 2.10.23