The Master Poet

Became a nightmare from a dream,
"Give us Barabbas!" was the scream.
If I was in that crowd that day,
would I have fought or run away?
Would I act like some animal?
Would I have been part of the brawl?
Would I, like Peter, tell a lie?
Would I deny, deny, deny?

The Master Poet's life? A blur.
Misunderstood, His 'poems' were.
His verses soared away as birds.
Few understood His humble words.
Corrupted way before the lung,
and then deciphered off the tongue.
If it were me, what would I do?
His love for souls- oh was it true?

So nailed Him they, upon a hill.
Should Christ's bust be on pedestal?
With timbers rugged, timbers crossed,
He died up there and all seemed lost.
There were no melodies to hear.
There were no notes to bend the ear.
There was no music, nor a song.
There was no harp to play along.

His words we seldom understand.
Their meanings more than music and
the other things that thieve our days -
our busy lives and lazy ways.
His harmony we mustn't fear,
for Psalms are music to the ear.
Indeed, the Master Poet lives -
and gives and gives and gives and gives...