Scorning the Shame

My saving complete, the crown of your head
the suffering elates and glaring across the rope
is my death.

My friends give way: abandonment.
My reputation eroded: mockery.
My decency exposed: nakedness.
My comfort dismantled: torture.

When fortunes are less forgiving
This fate is locked in your gaze and
a heart song is born.

If glorious indignation remains
the sonnet of redemption,
how am I to make sense
of Shame?

Its ok.
There is joy set before me.

More than ok. Is it true
You approve of my reciprocated mockery?
Even that You,
Son of Man, would take up,
both cross and Shame,
and resent what I abhor?

A wound of mine that you haven't shared
there is not.

If you endured, so will I.
I despise that which cannot be compared
to the Joy.

Joy- my power in the face of Shame.
When his filthy hands
fulfill holy prophecy,
and your sacred suffering becomes my own...

I am resurrected.
Now I know I can scorn the Shame.