We fail to comprehend it, the truth, the question: why
there is no rhyme, no reason, the Messiah-man must die.
We worship with the mighty, the wealthy and great
the proof is in the fortune, the seal is in the fate.
No home is builded for the poor, no place here for the weak,
we venerate the famous, whose countenance we seek.
We beg for their approval, we crave their affirmation,
to tell us that we matter, to give us validation.
The teacher has come near to us, we watched him walking past.
We paused, we listened to his words; we wonder will they last?
The teacher has come near us with love and with his wisdom;
he shows us how to break the rules, we draw back from his freedom.
We are searching for a leader, a commander for the troops,
to take us where we want to go, to walk triumphal routes;
but the road he chose is weakness, it is folly, it is risk;
had we known at the beginning we never would enlist.
He turns the order downside up; he surely is misguided.
He makes the undeserving friends while good folks are derided.
He simply cannot be the one, he’s surely not the Christ
and if he will not go away, he must be sacrificed.
The end was quietly arranged, his death, it was expedient.
The night, it drew the curtain, the tomb it was convenient.
Well-buried was his message, well buried was the trouble;
along with his suggestions that the walls would soon be rubble.
But the stories won’t stay buried, the rumours are insistent,
his followers are foolish, too, they speak of life persistent;
declare his risen presence, and call themselves his witness.
They live with grace and wonder, and love that is life’s litmus
© 2012 Ken Rookes