The Agony of Golgotha

Beneath the olive boughs, where the night is a deaf prison,
He sinks to the ground, pleading for the Word.
But the dome is rusted copper, and the world is a plague-ridden winter,
Where the millstones of fate grind human bones severely.

“My Father,” through a grimace, “break your seal!
Give a sign – were these torments and tortures not in vain?”
Only the stars – cataracts of extinguished eyes – are torn and silent,
A vulture-wind tears the flesh and old walls.

Before His eyes – chains, nails, and crucifixion,
The mechanics of suffering devised by the Creator.
There is no pity here, not a drop of compassion –
And on His brow, the thorny crown of darkness has frozen.

The Earth is a rotten ark, abandoned in the port,
Without oars or a rudder, it drifts into a boundless abyss.
God-the-Architect has thrown humanity into solitude,
Leaving only the void of His own cathedral.

The pale figure arose. In His pupils – steel and ice.
He raised His proud gaze to the heavens-the-executioner.
The last myth of faith dissipated in the darkness,
When to the cry of the living, not a single response comes.

“Why do you need my sin? This whole treacherous finale?
Is the ethereal throne merely a deceptive pit?”
The cross is accepted through pain – a bloody ritual,
Where the Most High is stone, and flesh is an open wound.

So be it! Since the Despot hears no pleas,
If His law is this otherworldly cold,
The mutilated spirit will go without hesitation,
With stigmata toward the heights – majestic and tragic.

For it is better to smolder into dust than to praise the Tyrant,
To descend into non-existence, knowing no shackles,
To forget about love, where the delusion has gone cold
From Him who never heard any prayers.