A baby, born of Mary,
A legend, before His birth;
A child to grow into a man,
To prove what true love is worth.
He was a man more full of purpose,
Above all other created things;
The light of man, the son of God,
The one true king of kings.
And, on common roads, He'd walk with us,
The weak, the poor ill-fated;
Shedding light on true importance,
With the words of God He stated.
Then He'd prove those words with actions,
Restoring sight and life to dead;
Giving hope to those in jaws of hunger,
With an endless crust of bread.
He would give His strength, His heart and soul,
Though our world would give Him strife;
And when it seemed He could give no more,
He would give His very life.
He would allow the torment, of His body,
His own flesh to fill the need;
Of every man, woman and child,
Even those that made Him bleed.
And He'd cry out for His father,
Feeling forsaken, from above;
Yet, never would He begin to bend,
Though broken, for our love.
Hung from a cross for all to see,
Spikes driven, through each wrist;
His breath would soon be silent,
But He would still persist.
And those who'd seal Him in a tomb,
While Heaven cause earth to shake;
Would witness the prophecy they had mocked,
And cower in their mistake.
For He would rise in the face of doubt,
To prove them so very wrong;
As the strong showed their weakness,
And the weak, for Him, stood strong.
And the cruel can no longer touch Him,
While His life still touches all;
And those who walk His ledge of love,
Can never really fall.
Ron Stoutenburg ©2007
