The Cross Poem by Mohabeer Beeharry

I stood before the cross.
I saw my father,
Smiling.
I said to him
It is your will
That I am here,
A fragile thread of mortal coil
Bound to these rowdy senses;
A cross on my forehead
And love and knowledge in my heart.
I fear not the whip.
And I fear not the hammer and the nails,
The crunching march of the soldiers
On the cobbled way.
This body will bleed, since it is your will.
I forgive them
Who bear the whips
And them armed with hammers and nails,
Because they are all you:
Different attire, different history.
You are the one who inflicts the pain,
The one who feels the pain,
And the one who shed tears of comfort.
How strange are your ways!
We are children, playing on the shore of time,
Picking little flowers and polished stones
By the road side,
Engaging in petty squabbles and useless warfare,
Blind to your subtle and transcendental play.
Little we know what a great show is going on around us.
In which you are the director, the producer
The actors and the viewers all in one.