As He bore what was ours He walks beneath the weight of a world that will not look him in the eyes, wood pressing into bone, breath shortening with every step. The cross is not just carried, it is endured, soaked with the gravity of what cannot be undone. Dust clings to his skin, blood maps the cost of love misunderstood, and still he moves forward, not dragged by fate but choosing it. In the silence between jeers and prayers, there is no spectacle, only resolve. A body breaking in public, a mer

Volume of a Cylinder