CROSS

CROSS

He never read the Bible
Nor bowed his head in prayer
He never entered in his father's house
Or had any thanks to share
For all that life had given him
Was the curse of his despair.

Resigned to this, his lot in life
And trapped by wretched misery
To lie locked in this depression
Was his religious ceremony.
He so wanted to be rid of it,
But it would not set him free.

He hated life, his tormentor
Choked and stinking with disease
No God, nor heaven, to tempt him
Or offer his fragile mind release.
No-one to share his awful fear.
No escape and no release.

He sometimes watched the children play
Their laughter ringing in his ears,
Distant echoes of his childhood past
Forgotten throughout the years.
Yet he was blind now, unseeing
His vision marred by tears.

A cruel reminder was the past to him
A story never told.
For there was no God when he was young
Nor now that he was old.
He would spit in the very face of God
If he should be so bold.

So the lethargy overwhelmed him
From the many burdens he had borne
The pain was with him always
For the dead he'd had to mourn
And only the Believers
Were the victims of his scorn.

With his body stooped and broken
His confused, demented mind
Questioned the fruitfulness of life
But no answer could he find.
No answers to the reasons why
Life had been unkind.

And he would not read the Bible
Or bow his head in prayer
Never entered in his father's house
For he had no thanks to share.
And all that life had given him
Was an awful cross to bear.