How could we all?
How could they?
They tear the skin from his back.
How could they?
They mock their Creator.
How could they?
They scar their Lord's head with thorns now covered in his own blood.
My feet bleed for their swift flight up the mountain
My hands sting from my stumble.
But my soul - oh! my soul - is in such agony!
I cannot breathe or move.
My own scream awakens me from my daze.
I sob. Wail. Let my soul sing it's sorrow and pain.
He was my Lord.
He was my Saviour.
He was my Teacher.
He was the Son of Man and yet they make him die in shame.
Die in his own blood and alone
Blood is all I can see on him.
His blood coating that precious brow.
The same brow that rose and fell with his teaching.
His blood dripping from the hands and feet that did so much good.
His blood flowing from his back.
Then there is the cross; the dreaded, hated cross.
That has its splinters stabbing my Lord's shredded back.
Its silhouette is unforgiving and dark against the even darker sky.
And its figure brings cries from those all around me.
But I am only aware of my anguish and sorrow
And his pain.
He is in pain - of this I am sure
So am I.
How could they?
Maybe it is not he.
Perhaps she is not the Messiah.
No! Devil, away with you!
Your thoughts shall not enter mine!
It IS he!
And the have slaughtered him.
And the have slaughtered him.
Who wrote this?
ReplyDeleteMe. Ther is more, but I didn't post it
ReplyDeleteWas it for school? Its really beautiful.
ReplyDelete