Post by MIRIAM JACOB on Jul 15, 2009 1:26:24 GMT -5
THE CONDEMNED
The trees are numbered
Ready for the felling;
The cull of trees as men drill
Through woods and slaughter beauty.
The trees stand, bearing their blood red numbers
One, two, three.
The low breeze trembles through their branches
Leaves shiver, but they, unknowing of their fate,
Stand tall and muted.
But Jesus knew, carried the fated wood
Upon His bleeding back, and raw with pain
Of numbered lashes.
He knew the worst was still to come,
Bearing our mortal fear.
And nails would drill through beauty
Of His healing hands.
Lest I should weep for lost prayer walks
In the green woods, Oh Lord,
Let this remind me of the pain
The fear, that bought my peace.
© Pauline Griffiths
The trees are numbered
Ready for the felling;
The cull of trees as men drill
Through woods and slaughter beauty.
The trees stand, bearing their blood red numbers
One, two, three.
The low breeze trembles through their branches
Leaves shiver, but they, unknowing of their fate,
Stand tall and muted.
But Jesus knew, carried the fated wood
Upon His bleeding back, and raw with pain
Of numbered lashes.
He knew the worst was still to come,
Bearing our mortal fear.
And nails would drill through beauty
Of His healing hands.
Lest I should weep for lost prayer walks
In the green woods, Oh Lord,
Let this remind me of the pain
The fear, that bought my peace.
© Pauline Griffiths