Once again the banished tears

run down my face,

for that dear, wounded head

who came to save the world, and bring us peace,

and was crucified instead.

And feel once more the lost

faith of my youth,

caught up in the music's flow

almost revive, come back in its living truth,

as it was, long ago.

Poor King, poor son of man,

who died for love

and lived, love's metaphor,

seeing this war-crazed world how you must grieve

that what we were, we are.

And once again the tears

run down and spill,

and almost choke my breath,

for all who believe, or don't believe, for all

who offered love, choose death.

Copyright 2010-2012 Paul Petrie