"The Flagellants" by Blair N. Woynarski

For the sun, perhaps a settled dawn

Breathe life into the pastures gone.

But nevermore the green shall be,

As blood is spilt so hideously.

Through the mud of spring the caravan draws,

Of tattered forms trudging, whilst the rook caws.

The sewage of a meager life

Brings these pilgrims to the knife.

They retrieve their whips and studded rods,

While Magi pray to heathen gods.

They flog their backs and cry the night,

Hoping for God to catch their plight.

When the plague swooped down, the sinners roared,

Having brought it down on their hoard.

Evil magics course the land,

Lightning strikes from Beelzebub's hand.

Only we may see the light,

And we beat the flesh with all our might.

Only blood can cleanse our soul;

We burn our sins in this dark hole.

But God has not yet opened the door,

Through which our purified bodies would pour.

In our newly sacred forms we stand,

And are left with the sores of a sinner's hand.