On Sergei Chepik's The Public Ministry of our Lord

Is this Christ my Christ?

Emaciated, spectral
lusting for divinity

A figure in bloody majesty
preaching to the dead
whitened ashy crowds

Not one who heals
but a sword
reminding of darkness
when all is light.

Are violence and weightlessness
my sure foundation?
Can this be my rock
divine form barely restrained
from flight?