Christ makes his blood a wine
to quench the thirst of the cowardly
and the vanquished dry of love.
Christ makes his body a meal
in a bed embroidered with anguish
A sprout of tender thorns
Down in his chest, emerges in the heart.
His undressed body now adorned with infamy
Will satiate those throats...
The his wounded flesh leaves the pain silent
and even the vile is now silent...
burned with light...
and perpetual darkness.
Christ makes his body a meal
in a bed embroidered with anguish
a sprout of tender thorns
down in his chest, emerges in the heart.
c

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