Pity the Limping Poet

God blew breath into the nostrils of man

And one day his seed would use it to fan

Into flames a smoldering coal

Which would spring to life, glowing, pale

And soften the iron whose awful role

It would be to become His nail.

A robe was woven, of deepest dye

On market table, who could guess its destiny?

Swathed around shoulders in beautiful drape?

Hung from stately windows to give needed shade?

No. Thrown upon One who chose no escape

It was willingly worn, for this moment made.

A thorn protrudes. At skin and vestment tears

It was not always thus, these angry spears.

Rebelling with man’s rebellion, the ground

Bears wicked hardness, clutching, grasping

At His hair, His skin, this crown

To adorn the King of life, hanging, gasping.

A tree sprang up through seasoned years

Watered with Heaven’s own perfect tears

Standing stalwart through drought and storm

Reaching its arms to its Maker.

Down it was hewn into boards forlorn

So that Sorrow could hang upon them, aching.

God grew a sponge on the deep sea floor

Out of view, quiet and obscure,

Which would one day be plucked up,

Dried in the rays of His created sun

and soaked with gall as a fashioned cup

To offer to the suffering One.

There is a cave, cool and dark

A welcome respite, but stony, stark…

Yet no one seeks a shelter here.

The one brief Resident has left

He is Victor over death and fear

The grave clothes lie bereft!


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