How shall we kill the jew?  That’s legal, kill
not murder.  Curse this stage!  Few props it bears.
No crosses fit for jews; no man-size ovens;
only gallows--makeshift crossbars to swing
murderers, not a jew.  Round up the actors.
Let the gentiles construct a crucifix
from the wings.  No, work below the boards,
below stage, under the deck in hell.  Imagine
Egypt’s suns oversee you;  while slaving
like hopeless Israelites, raise up a frame
for a pyramid.  

                         Yes, the jew clings
to Yahweh.  He’s crippled.  He identifies
himself as a father, too.  Cut off the scene.
Call the gentiles above.  A cripple with bleeding limbs
and a mother weeping for him and her daughters
is pitiful.  Carry the jew.  No.  Bring him
in a chair.  Better yet,  let the cripple
wheel himself in.  The jew’s too bent to hold up
his burden.  Bind together his hands and feet.  
No need to strip and fasten him.  No need for whips.
Mere beatings shall silence his soul’s noise.
Let the rain fall upon earth’s hard clay.
        
        Enough.  These gentiles shall cast him like a net,
wheeled chariot and all, into the empty
orchestra pit,  Allah’s ocean,  down into
the right side.  No prayers, no offerings.  Our play
is done.  

              Allah, who killed the jew?  Not You,
who pastures manna.  Nor my tongue and words.
Yet my hand rests over my eyes and offers some
of the land to You, Abraham’s God, our God.

                       I shall not hang myself like tearful Judas.