My Hands, a poem

My fingers laid upon His head

A crown of thorns

 

My mouth spat upon His face

A disgusting flood

 

My fists and feet left His body marred

Many welts even bled

 

My hands nailed His hands and feet

I only felt a little heat

 

My voice mocked Him hard

Wagging my head

 

My spear pierced His grace

Out came water and blood

 

My sins are why He was dead

I was a man with horns

 

(This poem utilizes a chiastic rhyming pattern)