A voice calls out in the wilderness, preparing
The way for Salvation. 
The plan is laid out: the plasma'll start circling
Around His feet, as the notes melodramatically 
Change, raising a cloud of multicouloured dust. 
The rock LED-struck would lift up in those clouds
And the clouds of fairy dust would produce bread. 
The crowds will watch in awe, hearts will turn. 

Then standing haloed on the edge of a cliff
He would increase peril by facing the crowd
To meet the Pisa, but only falling to the rocks
Below. 
But the drum of the beat will change 'fore his feet
Hit ground, as a flash of the S-chested angels
Whisk him up, leaving levitation to draw out 
Cheers, kowtows, conversions, repentance. 

Then foreseeing the weakness of the cross, 
Bleeding, helpless, He would kneel. 
Three years of wasted ministry prevented 
By the brave act of trading this simple act
For the salvation of all the kingdoms of the Earth, 
('Cause, you know, he who never lies said so.) 
Having been assigned leadership to the King of 
Heaven and now Earth, all souls would cheer 
"Hail to the King, Hail to the King"
And Mission Accomplished, the Son would return. 

A voice plans this all in the wilderness, 
But it isn't the Baptist. 
It's the bearer of all that's shiny, 
Bearing light as a beacon to trap fickle hearts. 

See how our Saviour chose the scenic route: 
Not the glamour of human expression of worship, 
       He obscured the message with long boring
       Parables, that contradicted the common-
       Sense of the day, and mocked academia,
Nor the Hollywood-like production of miraculous
Miracles, spiced with convenient back stories; 
       He healed, resurrected but asked to 
       Keep such under lock and key until 
       The Cross had been revealed that 
       The focus be kept always on Love
Nor comfortable choices to make the journey
Of pain less painful than it needs to be. 
        He taught climbing out of one's skin
        To remind us that human strength doesn't 
        Get good mileage, but a shared yoke
        Kills usurper guilt forever, 
       
He chose a cross, a quiet wooden cross, 
That we never forget the Sacrifice:
For us, 
But about the Father, and to the Father. 

(c) nyonglema