February 1998

Hate, Love, Struggle.

Blood pouring from his limbs, he walked further down the narrow alleyway. The numbness of his body was the only thing he could feel, except for the warm crimson trickling down his eyes. The tears flowed. And before him appeared three crosses. Two were burning, the last was untouched. He continued further and further until the flames licked his body. The sounds behind him meant nothing. The screams. The bombs exploding in the darkness. He no longer cared. The broken bottles under his feet were unnoticeable to the trance he was in.

There were three men on the crosses. He walked up to the first, a murderer. "Why?" he asked. "Why are you here?" The man replied "I sinned." He walked up to another cross, this one burning. "Why?" He asked. "I sinned," the man replied, yet added this "but I have been forgiven." He walked up to the third cross, the one in the middle, which was also burning. The man on this cross wore nothing but thorns and shame. "Why?" he asked. "Because I questioned.," replied the man.

He now found himself nailed to a cross. The pain was nothing like before. Nothing like the pain he felt when he hadn't eaten in weeks. Nothing like the pain he felt when his was torn from his children. Nothing like the pain he felt when the blaze from his burning house seared the hairs from his hands. This was a pain of humiliation. Of defeat. He saw himself, gun in hand, bleeding, crying. He approached the cross to which he was nailed. "Why?" he inquired. He wanted to scream. He wanted to explain why he was forced to kill. Why he felt God wanted him to slay those who opposed him. Why he sacrificed his home, his family, and his life for his religion. But he could only utter "I sinned, but I have been forgiven."

The above can be taken many ways. Hopefully you will look past what Pat Robertson or Jerry Falwell will have you believe about it, and take it how it was meant. A cry to question. A cry to love. A cry to forgive.

Will (Siva@cyberjunkie.com)

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