Bethlehem’s Solitary Savior: A Poem

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From the empty streets, wailing, weeping heard.
Rachel’s hot tears falling on trembling hands.
In darkness she there sits, moaning, heaving; hurt.
A solitary, empty cradle in black corner stands.

“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

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