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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