The Flagellation Poem by Mark Heathcote

His flesh is real and striped asunder.
Angels looked ashen and sombre.
Christ, collapses-dejected and bleeding.
Body exhausted, limply conceding.
He lay on the floor like a whipped offering.
An expression of the highest suffering
Contorts his eyes and pallid face.
The soldiers who assaulted him debase,
Are they low creatures? He pitied them all.
He never looked at them with sad appal.
His torture never broke his spirit.
He'd have no future wishes to disinherit-
A living soul from the kingdom of heaven
He never met a moment of indiscretion.