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Christ.

Christ




He crawled up from the dirt

One mother no shirt

and he kept all along

the stars were his song

And by each passing time

was no reason nor rhyme

he carefully concocted the sum

that lingered like voodoo plum

so you can scratch where you are wrong

For you to be his song

So he kept on with digging

No sense in his winning

the layers were peeled back

Nothing was called to his task

the rosehips and meadow sweet

burned from the sky

the stars were his eyes

drawing breath from on high

the acorns, the chestnuts scattered on the ground

the squirrels, the magpies leaping all around

the crunch of the fauna under an unsocked foot

the whispers, the urgency riddled with muck

for you to be stripped bare

no sense in the notion to share

it was his mother's due care

he is not pyrite masquerading as gold

his story will always and forever be told

he joined in with humanity and coughed up dirt

never tiring, never shaking, fully alert

shaking the ground like a dream

shaking his wounds like an overflowing stream

Oh what good did it seem

he was crucified, one of a kind

no human left behind

in this servant man

poured out for every fan.

So in that golden, honey ambered sunset

let me tell you a tale you shall not forget

He was one and only the great.

To behold the glory of this servant king

All blessings and glory to him do we sing.

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