;
Nothing to Prove
The Romans offered him
some wine with myrrh to dull the pain,
a kindness, I suppose
from the soldiers sent to kill him,
the drink their century’s
notion of an anaesthetic.
I can’t believe it would
do much to ease the agony
of sharp metal through flesh,
of heat and height and jeering crowds.
I can’t even pretend.
Of course, I’m not as strong as Christ-
but the thought of crucifixion
is one I can’t conjure
clearly. Consider medieval monks
whipping themselves bloody,
pain a path that made sense
to link their bodies’ wounds with his.
And in the Philippines
there are enthusiastic men
ready for a passion
of their own, no Romans needed.
Imitating his pain
seems the goal but for what reward?
Which king brought myrrh to him,
in Bethlehem, how did he know
dull pain would be a gift
fit for a child thirty-three years
away from the waiting
cross? Was it prescience, prophesy,
or just a bit of luck?
Yes, we are all headed for grief,
every breath gives us
another chance to find some way
to ache. No wise man brought
myrrh to my birth but I wouldn’t
have the strength to deny
the offer of a sedative
before they broke my heart,
or, first, my body and spirit.
Give me liquor or pills,
I would need some shroud, a thick veil
to lay between my nerves
and the bite of every hammer.
He couldn’t ease the pain
and still speak to us as human-
it’s authenticity
for God to choose to hurt like us.
So why endure our pain?
I’ll never be a deity
and see no sense in scars
to prove my human frailty.
Knock me out, let me sleep,
bring on the pacifying tricks.
The last drink I deny
might be the one I really need.
;
;
John A. McDermott is a native of Madison, Wisconsin. He now lives in Nacogdoches, Texas, with his wife and daughter. His poems have recently appeared in Prime Number and Valparaiso Poetry Review.
Read more of McDermott’s work here and here.
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