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The most sorrowful and gruesome story ever told
begins with the man who crossed the waters and heights
carrying thirty and some unquenchable suns on his head,
the man who walked in the rain and wind with thirty and more moons on his shoulders.

For he looked like a slim and tender early spring shoot
that is rooted out from a rough and dry soil, and, therefore,
having no beauty to attract others, he was rejected; 
having no majesty worth honoring or respect, he was despised; 

and because he was acquainted with no comfort but suffering 
he was ousted to the hill named Skull at last under pouring lashes with a cross on his back.

Although the stories of his own that he told to the mountains were sad and painful, and written on the waters were sorrowful and lamentable, he enabled to hold himself by the faith he held 
in his friends who were always close by and shared a day’s burden with him. Although the cup he took at Gethsemane was bitter and stringent, it enabled him to take it through friendship
he was reassured through a broken piece of bread and a cup of wine he shared with them, surrounding the last banquet table 
that is beautifully shaded in red from the color of setting sun.

It seemed impossible though,
under a most disgraced humiliation,
he gave out himself to the pain that was unbearable,
he upheld a wooden pillar high in air with the spike pierced hands and feet at the hill called Skull. And it was possible only because he held warm memories in his heart, the remembrance 
of a loaf of bread he broke and dipped a piece in the reddened evening sun and drank it from the one same cup with his beloved friends.

After a man of such tragic life has gone,
after a man who lived through such distasteful life had left,
the most sorrowful and gruesome story ever told ended as a tale that year after year, 

since then, the man returns as a dew-landed lonely lily
in an early April morning on the other side of the footmarks 
he left behind, smeared with a drop of blood darker than 
the sunset ray.
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