Poetry

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Exhausted by the day's heat, Yah'shua rests
On the Mount of Olives as He looked across the Kidron Valley,
at Mt Moriah where Abraham's faith was tested and his hand stayed from sacrifice,
now stood the magnificient Temple his friends loved,
This Temple would lie in ruins in a few years,
And His Father's House He loved.

A countdown was ticking inside Him,
His tired eyes swept to a barren hill with worn crosses, golgatha,
He looked down hearing noises on a city of a stiff necked people,
Soon the noises would be angry people taking Him through their streets,
Many who were at this moment contriving how to kill him,
But did not realize, it was He they spent all their lives seeking,
He returned their hate for Him into a perfect sacrifice for their souls,
and would die in the house of his friends.

In three days after His death,
His Father's house would be raised again,
He sweated with the day's heat that was not letting up after nightfall,
Alone in the dark, hurt by unbelieving friends, tears fell,
This sacrifice would not be stayed by heaven's hand,
And He is The Door of His Father's House.

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