Wakening the Lamb

The boy knew about blood.

A sign of sacrifice, it flowed

through every festival and feast.

His people saw the power

and the promise in those streams,

the blood of beasts.

 

But when, amid the yearly plans,

the old recurring rites,

did he learn he was the Lamb?

 

Maybe when his mother told him tales

of men who sprinkled drops

across the veil.

 

Or when he saw the stains beneath

the fingernails of busy priests

who patted his small head and said

“How much you’ve grown!”

 

Was it at the tender age of twelve

when at the temple he outshined the wise

and left his parents wide-eyed?

 

Or did something simply click one year

as he saw the scapegoat damned

and chased outside the camp?

 

How his young heart must have raced

when scribes unfolded the scrolls

and read those prophecies of old:

Isaiah’s poem, infused with blood.

Is that the one that made him think

“That’s me”?

 

Was that the word that wakened him

who takes away the world’s sin?