Death in Spring.

It was a strange one from the start,
I’d taken part in many executions,
but this crucifixion bore nothing of Rome.

The man was lame, deliberately so –
crippled in the name of his belief,
as Jacob before him at Peniel.

In Asherah’s Grove the Nazarene was lamed,
wed to the Priestess - Mary, Her of the Sea,
then hailed as king, embodiment of El.

This king was always honoured in Hesuchia,
fourth of the year’s five stations – the Repose,
from the trees’ last leaf to Spring’s first stirrings.

Prepared for death and subsequent return,
his seven year reign was feasted well, the night before
his crucifixion on the ancient Tree of Life.

There was talk of collusion with Antipas
a secret member of the Asherim,
worshippers of Asherah, consort of El.

Pontius Pilate, it was said, was paid
in wine to turn his head to darkness
as the sacrifice was led up Golgotha’s slope.

Here, in the sight of El, on a sacred oak his reign
was cruelly ended, nailed in crucifixion,
hammered by the Asherim.

His blood was let by the spear of truth,
Caught in a cup, then thinned with water
in the Vessel of Isaac.

Singing Solomon’s songs, disciples
danced in perfect time,
sprinkling blood on the stony ground

Within three days the resurrection had begun -
Spring’s first lilies pushing through the pebbles.