'The following is a poem which was found among my grandmother's possessions
after her death in 1989.'
Was I Gentile, Jew or Roman
on that Friday long ago?
Did I join that sad procession
so sorrowful and slow?
Did I try to give him water
or help to ease his load?
Did I reach out with compassion
or wield a stinging goad?
Did I wring my hands in sorrow
as he bowed His weary head?
When He dragged the cross of timber,
did I scoff at Him instead?
Did I yearn to bear His burden
or had I held the thorn
that crowned Him the Messiah
in the stillness of the morn?
Did I close my eyes in anguish
as the nails were driven home?
Or did I feel that justice
had obeyed the laws of Rome?
Did I have a moment's panic
when I heard the words so few,
"Forgive them, oh My Father,
for they know not what they do."
YOU ARE READING
Poems Primarily Narrative (or not)
PoetryFIRST PLACE COFFEE AFTER DARK WRITING CONTEST - JULY 2020 This collection has no particular category or message. They are errant thoughts and observations on various subjects. If interested, I hope you find some you enjoy.
