He carried his cross, entwined with thorny vines. Twisted, like his soul. The serpent slithered, shadowing the cross. He was old now. Weathered. Wise. He felt the vines’ sting. Like his past sins, they pricked his conscience. Each thorn, a lesson. Each scar, a sermon. He wore his wounds as badges, their pain his moral compass. But he was steadfast. He didn’t falter. The thorns couldn’t degrade him, nor charm him the serpent. He was a healer, a paradox. Beautiful, yet painful. A wise man, knotted in introspection. The beauty of thorny wisdom crossed in his journey. That was his power.