At the Pillar 2

You've seen a felon in the public pillory

Having his buttocks beaten to a mash,

And much admired his cool disdainful dash,

The muscles firm – both gluteal and maxillary

(Aided no doubt by draughts from the distillery).

But now consider Christ beneath the lash,

Deafened by the incessant crash and slash

Of leather, sticks, the whole damned crude artillery.

Consider how each whipstroke gashes, galls

Ribs, shoulders, flanks, how bits of torn flesh keep

Falling away, as, say, boiled mutton falls

From the bone. But does the victim whine or weep?

No. Though all that is left him is his balls.

He merely counts the strokes, like counting sheep.