Crossed logs, tainted wood
Torn body, bored palms
Darkened sun, hushy crowds,
Three men hung, one named Christ;
Echoing shrieks,
But for agony
Could sound sweet:
Today, thousands years ago.

He smiles down on you and I
From his throne on high
As we celebrate his death
In red cloths and nice dishes,
Holidays and sparse wishes

My pen has come as a messenger
To weave in blue the message of the sender
The message of the season
“He is Risen”
Two thousand years ago, on a Sun day

Why not share?

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