Risen
Oh! What a weary world of woe
To see a pious man, laid low
A pitiless look, from Godless eyes
Barabbas luck, means His demise
His destiny, to be betrayed
That Judas kiss, a liar made
A King of Kings, in paupers clothes
A Crown of Thorns, His sweet repose
For He’s no friend of mine, he cried
Three times condemned, three times denied
Wash clean the sins, from guiltless hands
A barbaric end, the mob demands
Your truth lies closer to the bone
Your fate is theirs and theirs, alone
They claim you, as their King of Jews
Is this the epitaph, you choose
Her dream, her life, her wondrous joy
Her son, her blood, her little boy
Her pleas for mercy, peal in vain
As blood falls from his face, as rain
Not wanting, of His pains to blur
He drinks not of the Wine and Myrrh
To lay His life down, for mankind
The Heavens weep its Angels blind
A final thrust, centurions spear
The Miracle of Christ is clear
Released from Earthly bonds, His prison
The third day down, the Lord is Risen…
Copyright © Peter Walsh | Year Posted 2016
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment