Poetry

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God stooped down on bended knee
On the cold and hardened ground
In the cool of the evening
Without making a sound.

All of nature still and solemn
Watched the Master’s hand
Mold and shape a lump of clay
That he would call a man.

While God meticulously formed
The man from head to toe;
He reflected on the future when,
This man would be his foe.”

He started with an empty face
And shaped the lifeless eyes;
a fountain filled with hate emerged
Beneath this lifeless guise.

Man’s frozen lips began to shout,
“Crucify this man!”
God shaped the chin, the neck, the arm
And moved down to the hand.

Man's two hands -- whirled a whip
And drew blood with each blow;
pushed a crown of thorns on His brow
That caused more blood to flow.

God's sculpting hands moved along
The chest, the hip and thigh
That carried feet that were so swift
To hasten God’s edict to die.


To die? Oh yes He had to die
To save man from his sin;
To wash away all guilty stains
And restore him to God again.

God looked upon His materpiece --
Lifeless -- completed -- cold.
God breathed in him the breath of life;
Man became a living soul.

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