At the end of that fateful weekThe centurion asked,
“And what shall you have me do to this man?”
In the sweltering heat,
The crowd of hypocrites shouted,
“Crucify him!”
The Cicada Christ spoke up.
“Cast me into the ground,” he said.
He was not afraid of their threats;
He had spent most of his life
Underground anyway.
“After three days I will rise again,”
He said. Surely he would,
For when he was born
He rose out of the ground,
Perched himself onto a tree,
And, baptized by the dewfall,
Proclaimed his droning gospel.
After he was put to death,
The doubting Thomases
Debated with one another:
“Who is this King, anyway?
Who is he to ask usTo welcome him with palms
When he cannot even save himself?”
But then the prophecy rang true,
For soon enough the crowd heard
That familiar buzz, this time en masse.
“He truly is the Christ!” they said;
And so, hypocrites that they were,
They anointed themselves with oil
And beat their swords into plowshares
Believing they had been saved
Saved for they had believed
Paying them no mind, the Cicada Christ
Took his place on the same tree
That they crucified him on
For what is death for him, other than
Another shedding of skin?
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