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The cross made of wood
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Ode to the risen, the followed, the crossing,
when evil sits lurking mid shadows of fear
Thorns in the mirror where blood slowly trickles,
menacing voices, a nail and a spear
Who is it calls this a Saturday sermon,
punished with timbers now more than their weight
Hung out to dry as the crows above circle,
trust is a demon built solely on hate
Take me, oh soldier of somebody's freedom,
silence this tongue if your heart tells you so
Blanket your soul for this day goes unending,
I shall return at the end of the show
Picture a stone made of granite and marble,
rolled to the side as if many were there
Footsteps to follow, the pathway is leading,
straight to the truth, it has something to share
Wake and remember, the moment, the feeling,
once in a while it would do you some good
Thankful, a phrase meant to help you remember,
every day starts at the cross made of wood
Copyright ©
Chris Green
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