The Scapegoat Poem by Peter Eliastam

There is a skull-like hill, contested still.
Succinct! That roadside execution site
Sends signals to our atavistic will
To worship while we kill. Did we, to requite
Our instinct with its blood-lust on the Man
We framed to punish God, hunt Jesus down –
Like Nimrod, as religious rabble can –
While gathering more thorns to plait His crown?
Upon that hill, outside the common wealth
Of our uneasy certitudes and pride,
Life’s Prime Significance betrayed with stealth,
Was writhing bolted, mocked by most, denied.
Repenting, stricken, one broke down and wept.
Another washed his hands – while others slept.