THE SON

Cuts and blood covers his face,

As he struggles up the hill at a very slow pace.

Tears in his eyes, his people shall cry,

As he trudge to the end of his race.

He looks into the sky

and asks his father,”Why?

“Why do these people don't believe

“Believe I am the better way to leave.”

As they post his death onto a mound,

The people scoffed at him as they bowed to the ground.

Thy placed a crown of thorns upon his head,

Laughed at him, but he heard no sound.

Even though he seemed so pure,

We can never imagine the pain he had to endure.

They nailed his hands and feet to the wood,

And I wish the pain he had, had a cure.

In the end the battles done,

He rose from dead to show he had won.

He was carried by angels to our lord,

And he will show you the way that you have in stored.