It’s still crap, but I think that if I rearranged some of the lines, I’d be skating a little closer to a sonnet in form if not in impact.
The original sonnet version’s here, if anyone’s wondering or didn’t click on the title.
Here’s the proposed revision. I changed some punctuation and other minor things, but essentially it’s as it was before, only a little differently turned:
Blood will have blood, they say, have sons and lambs
asplay on altars stoked for conflagration;
these first-born sacrifices eased by rams
give evidence of masculine salvation.
His blood is scapegoat blood for desert sands,
the serpent-on-a-stick that cures on sight.
His blood can heal when drawn from open wounds
by scourges, nails, Gesthemene’s dark night.
His skin-blood’s river flows in open parts
and all can be changed or not, a carmine storm
that cleanses faces, sins and guilty hearts;
it’s not the secret blood that seeps from wombs.
His death was public. Darkness fell at noon.
But mine is private, scouring insides clean.