Poetry

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It seemed so insignificant
The red, the crimson flow
As it trickled down the wood
And kissed the ground below

It was meant to be disgraceful
The image that it gave
A death determined fitting
For traitors, thieves, and slaves

So many drops had fallen
In generations past
Why was it so different
When that Man breathed His last?

When agony engulfed His soul
When anguish clenched His face
While hanging, naked, beat, and scorned
The object of disgrace

What made His blood so different
Besides being divine?
The blood that fled Emmanuel’s veins
The blood should have been mine

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