Jesus on the cross weeping tears of miserable joy, trickles of blood travel down his face like little forlorn rivers, drenched in the blood of war. Piercing through the night, the day after the wretched scene is an activating light within the soul of everyone who knows that something strange is about to occur. “The Boy With The Thorn In His Side”. “The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot”. Taking down armaments. Triangular pinprick draws blood as sacrifice. New water for the rose garden. Something dreadful giving way to something beautiful. Pruning flowers and setting them down, the gardner’s bliss that I will likely never know because it is not my one true calling. Daisies so subtle and unexciting, but beautiful just the same. There is no blood sacrifice with them. They are always chirping, always smiling always radiant in their yellow gold or fresh white hue. A paintbrush that will clear cut across the sky, painting the sunset.