I can't get enough

How can I be so self-serving and hypocritical? I live a life that is full of contradiction and without honor. Or justice. Or integrity. I live a loathing life of sin and disparity. I do not honor my God. But does he hear me anymore? Can he? After all I have done and said and been…and pretended to be. I do not deserve to live.
*
I look at Ty and Levi and see that they need support. But where is it? Where is the church that we helped? Where are those that we were to be supported by? Are they too good? Was I too good? I am pompous. I am a jerk. And I am stuck in a rut.
*
I throw the small pebble. It is the largest thing I can find at my feet to throw. I sneer at the bloodied man pulling himself with unattainable strength up the hillside. It is all I can find to throw. And so I offer to take the hammer and drive the spike through his hands. I want to bring him pain…to see him cry out in agony. I enjoy the sound of the crunching bone and ripping flesh that comes from the metal stake pushing through his hand. His cries bring a grin to my face. He looks at me, compassion in his eyes. For a moment I begin to whisper that I am sorry. I stop myself. I am not sorry. If I was sorry, I wouldn’t be moving around to hammer the other nail in. The criminal’s blood is flowing freely now. The armored guards tell me to hurry up, so I do. I make quick work of his feet and watch them hoist him up above me. I wipe the blood from my hands and spit it from my mouth onto the rocks at the bottom of the wooden spires. I turn my back on him and walk away.
*
They tell me that he rose from the dead. Eh. So what if he did? Its not like it makes that much of a difference to me. We can crucify him again. He didn’t fight the first time. Why would he fight a second time? Or a third. A fourth. And so on. Every time I drive the nails in it gets easier. The blood is easier to get off.
*
I don’t even cry afterwards anymore. That first time, I cried a lot. I got to the bottom of the hill, and completely broke down. By the time I had clamored to the top, it was over. His body was gone. There was just the blood. I laid down in it. Soaked my body in it, sobbing for mercy. Now, I just wait on the hillside until I see him breathe his last breath. Then, I walk down the hill and wait for him to rise again. So that I can crucify him, again. Or stone him. Or shoot him, or hang him, or electrocute him. The methods have gotten less messy but more effective. It’s a lot easier to kill him now.
*
But it’s not the killing that does it for me. I just like to see the agony in his eyes. That’s why I favored the original method. The agony lasted longer. Sure, the shooting was good. The stoning was ok. But, crucifixion? There was no better method than that.
*
I feel like this is me. It is like I can’t get enough of punishing Christ for the crap I do. I can’t help but think that every time I do something bad or wrong or unjust or against his will for me, that I am killing him, watching the light go from his eyes. But what do I do about this? I don’t know.
*
My God, my God. Why have I forsaken you?