In lonesome love of cloud-wisps’ hope, legion’s wistful, wishful eyes did grope for torch’s light in dismal skies, praying solace of deliverance may come upon nigh.
Knowing, a poet’s eyes draw woefully down, thereupon, twitching, on snowy ground, thrashing unabashedly, truth’s splendor be found, gasping, as it quivers its last gurgling sound.
Deafened by beggars’ buzzing drone, then fallen beneath earth’s tumbling stone, whose weight He could not shoulder alone, His own faith hath became a whispering wraith, His own frailty becoming wholly known.
Beneath the stone where He hath writhed, those dear loved, then near despised, compassion’s pain rolled over again, shadowed by heresy’s coals of disdain.
Though the bloody scene grotesque, a bit of pity found for Him now laid to rest, taking his quill, a poem was scribed, a martyr’s tale of Him who hath died, while angels cried, a sterling sun as it shined, seemed to reflect the will of the divine.