Beyond the Whip

Beyond the Whip

Blissfully shy, and just a tiny seed was I
When sieved from the soil of my father.
Into manicured hands my devotion had fallen,
I’d grown to know no other than a heartless villain.

Captured for years by fearless obedience   
My body I sentenced with measured deviance
To labor - once more - unto death and into the pit,
Beyond the sounds of the pounding whip.  

It’s here, where souls abide instinctively naked,
Side by side, the secular and the sacred;
Where pride into meekness collapses -
Where the whip lies inept before the masses.

In this final hour vengeance is not what I seek,
Instead, for us both, oh lesser god, I now plead:    
Holding the pierced Hands by which man was formed,    
How dare I petition only the wounds of the wronged?