Upon his head a hat may rest
He wards off crows and deathly ranks
Propped upright by wood is his preferred stance
My saviour did not die on account of my sins
I rarely shout "Hosanna!" as I parallel his fence
This yeast shall not bake to a bodily bread;
These grapes shall not ferment to a hemoglobic toast
My saviour has feet that dare not tread
Though stationary, he knows all of the world
Loosely dressed in ancestral cloth,
He feeds on needles, pins, and bran
My saviour led me once to love and repentance
Apostled upon the ground, merciless at his feet
Hearkened by silver and its light that shines and blinds,
I enacted betrayal upon supple lips
My saviour is propped upright on a wooden stitch
He oversees my fields sown with silvery flesh
As chariot wheels threaten to paint my crops red,
His feet shuffle seditiously and absolve me of the act
