The sun had reached its zenith,
And the king had arrived at his crosseth,
Where traitors had longed for days,
To mingle and maneuver their ways,
In a crescendo of hate,
To a diminuendo of fate,
He suffered in Roman,
And treated like a no man.
Stripes bore on his back,
Giving rise to destiny's crack,
Crowned in thorns,
Master of manipulated norms,
Three sixty minutes,
Full torture in crates,
And for a single moment,
Genesis of a comment.
There may be sterner trials than this,
But what a critter could bear all these,
No friend left in heaven and earth,
Every prince of darkness left his hearth,
Sparing no arrows,
Creating all harrows,
How wrong Satan was,
To think God was loss.
He was heard in his deepest woes,
Helped though not in hoes,
Despised and afflicted,
Now honored and respected,
Will you listen to his knock?
Or shun it as a mere tale of folk?
For he bled for your confession,
And granted us salvation.
I really liked it.
