He walked there

 He walked with those sharp thorns attached to his head
The afternoon open as the valley was
the neighbour's smile unknowing of the chief who walked
The Godlike in flesh upon the trail

Blessing it for a millenia
Right off the cross his syrup blood down the side of the head
He took the bag of blood that I am and burst it with a thorn
to show me the worth of my incessant judging

across the valley, this wonderful path of life
A pilgrimage now for the milions
I stand nothing more than a perforated bag of blood
drop by drop I weaken Until full christ shows me I don't need it

The whispering of our dawdling shoes as we wander through
The green and yellow faded grass between dusted conifers
He walked beside me as I was blind and injured
each judgement I made another few drops of blood