I stop by the florist at five,
picking up your favourite lilies,
wrapped in a messy bunch.
I take the long route,
to meet with you shortly
at 'Calvary's Cemetery'.
We meet before your grave,
perfectly shaped into an oval,
with a cross scratched into it.
Jesus they called you.
Christ was your nickname,
but King was your death sentence.
I gave you the lilies
and you clothed them
by scattering them in the field.
I asked you how long
you'd been gone for,
for there was no date on the stone.
You laughed at your grave,
said it had been three days,
but your body had not yet decayed.
I came back the next day
to mourn for your death,
but only grass laid at my feet.
And the lilies which you scattered,
the lilies with their broken stems
dotted the field where they grew.
YOU ARE READING
Strength
PoetryStrength is a selection of poetry about an inner spiritual strength. Sometimes when we are feeling most weak, our spirit opens up like a tree within us. Poetry has always been a way for me to express the beauty and strength I see in God's world when...
