FicWad

The crosses stretched for miles, hundreds, thousands, perhaps. Gaping wounds, blood pooling, faces twisted in anguish, broken reminders of misplaced faith. We watched for a time, impressing in our minds the sight, the smell, the sound of flesh being torn by carrion birds and the moans of those still unfortunately alive. It was a relief after the night of hammering and screams. All of them still bore the damning symbols about their necks, hanging from their ears, tattooed on flesh now torn and bleeding. The rising sun turned those farthest away into gruesome shadow-puppets, creating a perfect vision of suffering. Yet, despite it all, the morning was perhaps the most radiant since time began, the clouds like shreds of rainbow, showing colors unseen in any sunrise before.

How much would it take to anger a god?

Murder? Rape? Genocide?

All those went unpunished during the night.

Might it not instead be something so simple as a single symbol, a preserved memory of a painful death, a reminder of an unwilling sacrifice?

Could a god be that petty? A man could. A man could grow to hate his father for the denial of a single choice. A man could grow to hate all those who reminded him of that denial, who continued the lie that he had gone willingly to his death. A man could grow tired of living as a slaughtered lamb.

And one who was both man and god...?

What might happen then?

We turned from the scene, from the sight of those who were so certain of eventual salvation, so confident of their favor in the eyes of their god. We turned from the crosses around dead necks, dangling from dead ears, inked into dead flesh. Among those of us who were still capable of speech, a single voice whispered a phrase that those now dead had once proclaimed so joyously.

Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again.

Amen, my brethren. Amen.