nail in hand, but no hammer, no translucent pain to wreak. sun beams on the son, tanning, up the hill, down to speak: "i am man's ultimate folly. crowned by thorns, salvation - my gift. nail me, man! cry not, be jolly - drive it in, strike the rift! you wanted, maybe, crosses, sermons? i am only the carpenter's whelp, who made the pact to be kind. now - nail! glad to help." 10.22.98