The Travail of the King
On a gloomy eastern morning
I saw a man clad in nothing
but a white piece of cheap linen draped around his hip
A criminal he was named to be
Yet there was nothing incriminating about him
Eyes filled with love He had
Hands tender to the touch
Feet's set like iron and brass
Majestic was His every stride
Upon His head sat a bleeding thorn of agony and pain
Upon His back laid a crossed tree of shame
Bearing all the weight of treacherous accusations
Alone He wobbled under the weight of great conspiracy
His skin was flushed and flayed in horror
Like a bruised reed He appeared to be
The glow was gone from Him
Flesh out of place, bones sticking out
A distorted figure passed before me
Eyes stung with tears
I blinked back the flood that welled up within me
Head hung low I watched on in dismay the trail with no hope
It was the travail of my King
A trial to save
An ironical paradox
No one could ever preconceive
Indeed this was a travail
The travail of a True King
©heavenly_broadcast
2018-09-04 19:01:30
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