By the age of seventeen,
Jesus had gotten sick of his Birthday.
The cake was okay,
and the presents had improved since the days of the stable,
but every birthday took him closer to an impossible task,
something he didn’t feel able to do.
It’s a bit much to wake up on your birthday,
and realise you’re supposed to save the world.
Just a boy,
jumped on by all the world’s sin,
sent to sink it into his skin,
and destroy himself for the damned,
so that they could be clean again.
It hung heavy over him,
the heaviest whenever anyone said “Happy Birthday”,
because it reminded him that his life would be short,
and he should treasure each second,
counting down each slice of cake and wrapped up wonder,
wondering if they’d be his last.
His parents had scrimped and saved to get some secondhand tools,
so that he could start work,
but he had started to ask himself what the point was,
when he wouldn’t make it past thirty,
smiling and giving his best grateful hug,
because sacrificing was that little lamb did best.
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