No need for a fancy name here. It pretty much speaks for itself.

Too often when I look around at society's portrayal of Jesus and even the Cross itself, all I can manage to find are the short-sighted images of Him in beautiful splendor with blinding light radiating forth from His entire body, with His clean, curly auburn locks falling just to His shoulders, framing His gorgeous, unblemished face as He somehow manages to stand erect even though hanging by nails in His hands and feet-that miraculously aren’t bleeding-from a perfectly straight-cut Cross made of fine, rich, dark wood, completely alone upon His hill where He TOOK our SINS right out from UNDER US…!
>{Ahem}<
THAT is not how it happened. First I should very much like to note that the Bible itself states that Christ was bruised and crushed, battered and scarred, pierced in the side, and without dignity. It would be even be very likely that one who had met Him before seeing Him in this state probably wouldn’t have been able to recognize Him behind the caked-on dirt, grime, and matted blood covering His face.
Not to mention He would hardly have resembled Himself thanks to His hunger-starved, gaunt features.
He would have looked like something out of some horror flick, with His ribs jutting out, covered in blood from head to foot, hair matted and tangled. Arms like spindles except where his biceps bulged massively from holding nearly his entire weight for so prolonged a time, His waistline caved so far you could hardly tell its silhouette from that of the rough, splintered hunks of wood the authorities slapped together to torture criminals to death.
He let His head hang low, taking on a hunched appearance.
Yes, I realize how that statement sounds. As though I’m assuming it’s the truth. But I know enough of the history of this version of death. He didn’t have enough energy to keep His head up. He had no choice. Yes, He was and IS the Son of the Almighty God. But while He was here, on this earth, He took on the frailties and mortalities of humanity. He FELT pain.
LIKE NO ONE ELSE.
This Cross that He hung from, it wasn’t a work of art. It was harsh and heavy. The nails they drove through His WRISTS were more like rail-road spikes in size. Only made of softer metal, which meant it was dull, it wouldn’t stay sharp. His moment of greatest beauty came when He looked His ugliest, while stuck to this splintered, shredding piece of wood.