… and Jesus Christ is standing on the top of the hill with the wind blowing through his eyebrows and is surveying a rooster about two miles away that happens just at that moment to be perched on a fence not unlike Farmer Brown’s fence except it is a Judean fence in the long ago of the earth, and Jesus Christ is saying “Yon rooster crowing..” preparatory to that night’s dark (that nighted and dark fitful) and fitful woe-adventures when they plant bleeding thorns on his head, and drag him spitting blood around, and push him, and cajole him, and mill about him in awful sorrow, thousands of men and women in dank robes wailing, o woe, o woe, and fires are burning someplace up ahead and out of the crowd jumps this lady with a clean handkerchief or scarf and Jesus mops his face with it, like say W. C. Fields suddenly borrowing a handkerchief from a stranger at the Worlds Fair in Chicago some ten, twenty years ago, thirty years, whatever and on the clean rag is left the imprint of his face, including blood features, and the woman runs away not believing it and staring at the rag and bundles it up under her arm like a flag and runs but once in the dark (and now the great thunderstorm and earthquake is forming) she unravels it to see if all the colors, the blood and features ran off into another, but no the face of Jesus is still neatly imprinted on that rag and stares back at her phosphorescent and frightening and crazy in the night and she screams, screams, doesn’t know what to do with it, drops it on the ground, kneels before it, wishes her husband was there to help her carry it home, or pick it up himself, like a piece of dead meat, and the husband is nowhere around, and the visage of Him so meek and sorrowful, stares from its stance in the desert dirt..
Jack Kerouac, Visions of Cody , 1960
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