by David Hollywood
Fruits of the passion,
Blood of the vein,
All our salvations,
Citric the pain,
Suffered the fault,
Of the lives that he bought,
By his prayers to stay sane,
Through redemption his thought,
Fertile the marks,
Adorn bristles his frown,
Garland laurels for scars,
Of the thorns for a crown,
Let the new days dawning, seed,
The harvest of the lives we need,
But not the tree to wood that cross,
Be ever grown again by us,
And splintered back, subjected, torn,
With vinegar on lip to quell,
His persecution, we’re reborn,
The thirst, for crying “save us”, hell,
And by the watered crop, his tears,
Reign down upon us, grain,
Until we bud from weeping fears,
The yield he wished, regain,
Our souls he reaped,
When after all his harm,
What’s sown, has stopped,
His life, was cropped,
To resurrect the calm.
Last updated October 20, 2011