What is the good of all this wood
and what's to be done with it
now the men are gone and the crowd dispersed?
Set it ablaze on this barren hill
and hope the smoke hides the smell of blood.
We did as you said, but there are splinters still,
patterned strangely in the embers.
The ashes smell of incense.
Peasant people rake among it
and take it away for keepsakes.
The stench of death remains.
A simple fire became a pyre for something unseen.
The shattered planks turned to ash
those followers stole like gold.
Even the twisted nails were taken
away from where we killed those men.
A blooded dawn climbs out the Orient.
Look, in the light, the've missed one thing -
a crown of thorns discarded in the dust.