My mother used to tell me that
Jesus Cristo, padre nuestro, would return,
like a thief in the night — escondido, sin zapatos.
Without anything that seemed valuable;
solamente su alma would be on fire,
and those who believe, esos con fe,
would see el sufrimiento in his heart —
burning with our sins —
Ay, she’d lament, como lo matamos.
Every one of us is a nail en las manos
or a scar left por el latigo.
We are his crown of thorns, me decia mi madre.
But he will be healed, hijo,
and no one will know el momento que regresa,
rey de reyes back for his kingdom.
He will be dismissed as a basurero;
an intoxicated poet, perdido in his beautiful words
that come spilling from his labios divinos. Palabras
that make no sense and sound like tambores
and machine gun fire.
But it will be el corazon de dios,
beating the world awake that day,
asking that his children abran sus ojos
to see the signs of la salvación and repent.
© 2007 henry toromoreno