God at the Gallows by Jeff Callaway

 God at the Gallows

by Jeff Callaway

Texas Outlaw Poet

I.

I walked past Old Sparky once, oak spine scorched black,

felt the ghosts lean heavy, pressing spine to back.

One hundred fifty dead—each one a final spark,

their screams still buzzing inside the dark.

II.

Leather straps still smell like skin,

you hear the hum before it begins,

a throne for ghosts, a crown of wire,

justice dripping gasoline, set on fire.

III.

Now trade that wood for steel and vein,

swap nails for needles, it’s the same.

The cross reborn in a sterile bed,

Christ condemned in a hooded head.

IV.

Pilate signed the warrant quick,

washed his hands and played the trick.

Judges do the same damn thing,

sign the paper, let the chamber sing.

V.

“Crucify Him!” then, “Execute now!” today,

mob mentality don’t change, it just wears gray.

They chant in ballots, chant in cheers,

clap when the warden erases years.

VI.

And don’t you dare call this justice whole—

when the state still slaughters the innocent soul.

Cameron Todd Willingham burned alive,

DNA cleared him long after he died.

VII.

Ruben Cantu, just seventeen,

shot and strapped, but his hands were clean.

Claude Jones, another name,

executed quick, evidence lame.

VIII.

Gary Graham went down the same,

a single witness sealed his shame.

And the Memphis Three—you know the tale,

railroaded boys, a justice fail.

IX.

The courts ain’t saints, they’re wolves in suits,

gavel slams louder than gunshot boots.

They preach about order, they preach about peace,

but in their chambers the killings never cease.

X.

The needle’s slick, the poison slow,

veins go cold while the bright lights glow.

Eyes roll back, piss floods the floor,

the chaplain whispers, but heaven’s door—

XI.

Don’t swing so easy for the falsely damned,

blood on the state, not the Savior’s hands.

You crucify Christ each time you kill,

innocence nailed to the law’s cold will.

XII.

Cross, chair, gurney—same device.

Blood, spark, poison—same sacrifice.

Innocent condemned—same Christ.

XIII.

Now tell me justice lives in this,

when mercy drowns in a needle’s kiss?

Tell me law is holy ground,

when ghosts outnumber the living round?

XIV.

I’ve heard men scream, I’ve smelled their fear,

felt the heaviness thick in the atmosphere.

You can scrub the chamber, paint the floor,

but the dead still rattle behind the door.

XV.

And you wanna call this civilized?

It’s crucifixion modernized.

The governor signs, the people cheer,

Pilate nods and disappears.

XVI.

Veins collapse, straps snap tight,

breath goes shallow, dimming light.

Witness glass reflects the sin,

law without mercy ain’t law at all—

it’s killing kin.

XVII.

Christ took lashes, crown, and nail,

the system worked, but mercy failed.

Now His shadow haunts the Texas night,

where gurneys hum beneath fluorescent light.

XVIII.

How many lambs we’ll crucify,

before we choke on our own lie?

One innocent man is one too much,

yet the state still plays God with its deadly touch.

XIX.

So I spit my fire in outlaw rhyme,

against a system drunk on crime.

The Word said mercy, not “needle clean,”

not “strap him down for the governor’s screen.”

XX.

Eye for eye was Moses’ law,

but Christ rewrote the fatal flaw.

Turn the cheek, forgive the foe,

mercy bleeds where vengeance goes.

XXI.

So hang your black robes in the gallows hall,

hang your gavels, burn them all.

The state ain’t holy, the law ain’t pure,

blood on the ledger leaves no cure.

XXII.

Each execution crucifies,

each switch flipped, another Christ dies.

From Calvary’s hill to Huntsville’s block,

the cross still drips, the dead still talk.

XXIII.

And I stand here, ex-con, unclean,

but Christ was outlaw, same routine.

The system broke Him, broke me too,

but mercy’s stronger than what men do.

XXIV.

So kill if you must, you crooked state,

but salvation don’t run through the chamber gate.

You can end a body, you can end a breath,

but you’ll never baptize justice in death.

XXV.

This is my sermon, my blood-soaked song,

a hundred lines to prove you wrong.

Every innocent man you’ve fried and bled—

that’s Christ Himself you left for dead.

XXVI.

The cross and the needle—both government lies,

but mercy still rises, and vengeance still dies.

~Jeff Callaway

Texas Outlaw Poet

© 2025 Texas Outlaw Press