“The King, the King,” they did laughingly scorn
Herod’s treacherous, brutal band
In dark rage they sought one not long born,
A solitary boy with tender little hands.
From terrified streets they came, incensed
Herod’s hungry and brutal band
Making home after home blood-drenched
A solitary village; Ramah, a now shaken land.
The King, the King, held in strong grip, firm.
Mary’s hot tears falling on trembling hands.
In darkness boy and mother flee, moaning, heaving; scared.
A solitary family, swiftly forward to a far-away land.
From skull-shaped hilltop, later, weeping heard.
The King’s hot tears falling from wooden cross-stand.
In darkness he there hangs, remembering, heaving; hurt.
Bethlehem’s solitary Savior with nail-pierced hands.
(c) Copyright 2012 by Matthew R. St. John