He walks with worn shroud, perforated shoes,
With tools of craft, awl in hand, taunt on tongue.
Long evicted from the house of Pilate, roaming.
Condemned long before he jeered the son,
Searching for scattered diaspora, condemned,
Not by the pious, or the holy, or Jehovah himself,
But apostates disguised as devout, condemned,
And pursued by the mortal alone,
Egyptian, Spaniard, Roman, Cossack, Nazi
He walks on and walks past, stopping,
Only to shed a tear for his people,
Or light two candles and rest.