Posted by: lecubiste | December 13, 2015

On the Death of Jesus

Carrying the wooden beam, his grave marker,

Soon to be the symbol of his life.

Tortured, crowned with thorns,

Yet still practicing forgiveness

To all who assailed him,

Here was the finest of humans.

Diligently showing love until the end.

It’s that for which he is remembered,

Termed the Son of God, so great his glory.

Great suffering in the name of higher purpose,

Is remembered, worshiped even in this day.

Socrates, Joan of Arc, others received his fate,

And they too are remembered, heroes of their day.

Yet the lashes of the whip,

The nails in his hands and feet,

The blade into his side,

The thorned crown that cut into his scalp,

These things cannot be denied.

So when I hear of this infamy,

I barely can contain myself,

This desecration of holy flesh,

This putrid behavior I deride.




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