On Easter morn, a crown of thorns,
stained crimson with his blood,
Was all that was found upon the ground,
where Jesus' cross had stood.
His precious body could not be found,
lying in that cold cold tomb.
Mary wept there silently for the babe she had
carried in her womb.
The Heavenly Father had claimed his son,
to live with him in Heaven above.
We can not atone for the cruelty that was
shown to God's chosen son,
We can only ask for his forgiveness for the things
that we have done.
We cannot repay the price that he paid that day,
but we can live for him as we travel life's highway.
May that cross be carried and his burdens shared,
and when the day comes when he returns,
May we all be prepared.
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Poetry
PoetryThis is a compilation of poetry written over the course of many decades. Poetry containing my thoughts, dreams, imaginations, and observations. Some may be whimsical, while others may take another avenue. Thank you for reading, G. H. M...
