On every corner in every street and on everyone’s lips
One more church, so much more opulence
Looking right at you in splendid color or black and white
A face, his face, THE face
Surrounded by angels, so many angels
Painted by the masters, then by amateurs, then just painted
Again and again and again, until boredom sets in
For me that is, but perhaps not for others

Looking up, looking down, looking everywhere
Blood, obviously for our sins, or so they say, redder and redder
Dripping into oblivion, as prayers reach out
Words, as wasted as the pain he suffered
Destroyed by the empire where he is now revered
A light or perhaps just conscience, shining brightly into history
Leaving only one question unanswered
How many ways can one look at Jesus without looking the other way