He came to walk amidst the crowds,
But then he died, ascended, rose.
In doing so he left a shroud,
And a book of layered prose.
We read it analogical,
Allegorical and more,
Some men threaten with its evil,
Others proclaim glory’s roar.
Yet there are those who hear them all,
And wonder at the multitude,
Who strain to hear the mercy call,
And faint under the weary rood.
Be she who brings the mercy home,
For war weightens the heavy cross,
His yoke is easy, burdens come,
But in His lightness they are lost.