Simon
of Cyrene
Amos Wilson (December 8,
2013)
He stumbles and tumbles
there, in the mud,
His face is bruised and
smeared with blood.
His cross lands hard
across his back,
I wince to hear his bones
thus crack.
A violent hand then seized
my arm.
“Come, black dog, or
feel some harm,
Lift up that cross and
bear a part!”
Thus forced, I do,
indignant, start.
But as I stoop, His eyes
meet mine,
They’re filled with only
love divine.
“Oh, my beloved, please
bear my tree,
So I might make on high
the Three.
Behind me hide, in
judgment’s lee,
For I will take it all for
thee.”
Aye, gladly, Lord, when
you go home,
I’ll bear your cross
from here to Rome.
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