Brother

     I
     Our Lord is tied to the cross and he suffers and is happy. The ropes cut into his shins and wrists, and Our Lord knows that His hour has come and that it should be so.
     And for a moment His vision clears and glancing down Our Lord sees soldiers priests men women boys donkey drivers His disciples and other people look at Him some cry others laugh some understand others don’t.
     And Our Lord says no I am no son of god I am a man if I were the son of god I would come down from the cross and walk away but I don’t come down this pain is killing me I hurt I love my disciples John in particular I understand the high priest Pilate I feel sorry for poor Judas I am sorry but how good it is to be human you do not know Father I am a man I will die of thirst and pain but John stands down there looking up at me he understands me I will resurrect in him.
     Our Lord dies at the cross but John walks the world crisscrosses the seas preaches people love one another thus taught Jesus from Nazareth.

     II
     Not finding me, my brother goes to people and asks every single one: “Are you my brother?” The guards consider it suspicious; the boy is brought before the judge of the land. The judge asks: “Soweth thou sedition?” The boy answers: “I sow not. I’m looking for my brother.” Then the judge says: “Let him go.”
     I hear people speak of a spirit-ridden boy and then I take a guess: “It must be a new John the Baptist”. Indeed, the boy is now followed by a whole host of disciples, beggars, cripples and cured patients. The evangelist says – just as the prophet Isaiah has said: “he hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows” – yes, but no one could lighten his burden, nor show him the way. I glimpse him one morning in a Jerusalem crowd and elbow my way closer to get a better look, oh, it’s a man of my own age, his beard still without grey. I call out: “Rabbi! Here!” and say my name, and he takes me by the hand and says: “Are you my brother?” and I say: “Yes, we are all brothers,” and I feel a bit strange, for what does this man of god want of me, and I slip away. And then one day I hear a bugle and see them lead one man who is carrying a large wooden cross. I say, who is this man, they say, king of the Jews, the Nazarene! I get closer to take a look – a man of my own age, but oh my goodness... – and he lifts his eyes, looks at me and I begin to recognize him, but they lead him along yelling – king of the Jews! king of the Jews!

     III
     I open the Bible and read that up there in the heavenly home my father sees that I am alone and sends my younger brother to me. The boy comes down into the world (I have myself a whole world built!) but how would you know me if I hide my eyes as if in guilt. Once in the agora I hear them talk about a boy who’s known to feed whoever is starving cure whoever is ailing he goes from door to door and asks then one then another if anyone has seen his brother. And he sees me on the street but knows me not in soldier’s casque he sees me up on stage and knows me not in actor’s mask he sees me in a vat stomp grapes amongst the slaves and with the sons of Levy at the harvest feast he sees me walk the desert with that quiet horde armed with knives he sees me with the customs lads frolick at the Roman feasts I know you see me on the street and do not know it’s me brother brother brother bro’ tell me where you go he meets me again but knows not that I am so hidden my smile and my breath. I hear cries and laughter rattling of metal bugle and wind soldiers are leading my brother through the city of kings I run I catch up I fall to the ground I wallow in dust so the soldiers trample me under their feet I run after them I scurry up that hill with the others I dodge neither the sword nor the whip I do not give up I awaken at night in the dark and lo four disciples are stealing away with my brother mutely like thieves I whisper as if in a daze bring him over to me bring him over to me bring him over to me and they lift him up on their shoulders and bring him over to me and from your pierced hand dew dribbles onto me.


196?
Translated by Ieva Lesinska