April 29, 2020 5 By Baya Osborn


A slave of the people, parson of God
Accused of treason on hearing the supper-bell
Instead of clanging steeple
The people, infidel! To give Him to the devil and turn good to evil.
Was it the end of prayer and preaching?
For they were stealing the Bible to give it to the Devil!
Shriek rose on shriek,-the spring air
Bound hand and foot, a slave now more
With a dusky brow and naked feet, down the summer-shaded street
Flashed tearful, yet defying-but with Thee abide we!
The wind rushed shrieking harm
While in their midst death hobbled up and down with diabolic glee
The people, outlaws of rapture wander uncouth ways
Slaining the Lord, again and against Him mutinies rise
Convicted well not, damned rout reign
About the world, He spread forth far and wide the word, filling each ungodly heart of thee
Thou knowest of things performed so long ago, the latter age little or none
That day, rent ironical
And yet He, saved the ‘people’; rhetoric
Amazed where nor skill, nor art, nor charm, nor devil tale tell could
The night-birds dread noon
Hyraxes screaming, crickets clicking and the stars dimly winkling
Could they hear not the hounds, though not in vicinity?

“He is from Nazareth, crucify Him!”
They used their hatred to give Him a bitter drink
And glared down on Him with pride, and what were they proud of?
Their rebellion shoved the thorns on His head, scoundrels!
Driving every nail in His hand deep, and watched His sorrow grow.
Many joined the crowd to spit and jeer
Laughing and mocking as He walked that day
They thought of His past disappointments and with anger, they pierced His side
He was denied power and ignored His worth
And the people, sinners, He was to wipe their slates clean
But made a lavish stir, wanting not true freedom within!
O pitying Christ!

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The owl hoots at noon, is the eagle dumb!
The people, their life a menace, welfare a crime
They said to Him, “Not us Time waits for, not are we to wait for you!”
His disciples “But He is the Messiah.”
But the people, “Moaners moan on, we coil round the blade of God’s scythe! Knowing you are not! Not even the angel that fights with the legions of hell! Him lashing voices, ascending ‘We are shaped in the image of Thee, thy God, Amin!”
Even Pilate said thee, but Lord pleaded not, “My Kingdom is on Earth not! And I am the King, you say so!”
Mockery is nailed to Him, “Jesus our saviour, we are an empire of slaves. Ammon and Moab reigned our land, now we give what belongs to Ceaser, what belongs to you then?

Thought them He was Baal or Ashtoreth, even Beelzebul who out of their graves came as a call, grieving!
And little them thought, death travails with us, the monster strangling the struggles of birth!
Bay of his blood bound borne on the breeze
And He changed the sun to a black cloth, moon turned blood, stars untimely cast to death.
And along the stars went Him, cursed to death!
Dust onto dust he went, not ashes to ashes
Sabbath passed but then, He was called again
On the third day
By the mother, Earth, and timely
Will he be tried again? Will he go free?
On land or sea? When will the court convene?
To his disciples, left them battles to fight and foes to subdue, before they all ascend
They waited for their Master, to rise!
In darkness little not dumb
And finally light came, and He was light.
Did He really overcome death or did he just come over death?
Or was He born again?
Pascha it is, the King has a rebirth!
By Baya Osborn