The Sixth Wound Of Christ Poem by O Sudhir Janardhanan

I arose, a welt red
With the first lash
that whipped dread
The intoned music of leather
Nail spiked striking flesh,
muffled dead
Slowly, proudly I rose
on the chest my head.
Very close to the heart,
tracing that encircled
from the front,
to at the back end

A blur as I made
myself shine and clear
With faint sprinkle of blood
Marks rose in tandem
to the hiss of the hand
mercilessly falling to make
many all over

Beats with love, the heart
never skipping, even in agony
The rhythm pounding
his father’s glory
Fine sprays, blood streaked
at places. Across
the welt it came athwart
The heart crying at the folly
that was mans suffering
Wondering how
to forgive the humans
their transgression
The skin tore
as the swishing music
broke out in incessant frenzy
And the pain numbed humans
filled with hatred
in stupor chanted and raved
to continue the affliction
They shouted for more
To persist and beat the spirit
into submission

I registered the pain, other
the body perforated
on the cross
Crucified, awaiting death,
watched under
The lance pierced through the side
in search of life

They seek out the Holy wounds
to justify his death
for the love of humanity
and fulfilling their prophecy.
Amidst the rash of welts
lacerated skin and blood spent
hovering, lost and forgotten
one of the very existential many
am I, to not find a mention
even on an inferior stigmata.
Like many,
I am the sixth wound of Christ.