For A Carpenters Son.

He had made a thousand, thousand
This one is just the same
Nothing special, nothing grand
Same skill, same tools, same aim
By chisel, plane and saw
The nails, don’t forget the nails
It was a job, nothing more
A craft that kept him fed
No time for thinking of its use
No time to worry his head
He received the token price
For a carpenters son
They cast their dice
It was a job, nothing more
Made by a carpenter
For a carpenters son
Pain pierced a mother’s heart
And pierced, both hands and feet
Everyone played their part
It was done, cloth folded
It was a job, nothing more
Yet, Darkness fails to diminish
For certainly it is not done
His words, It is finished
Speak of the victory he has won
He died for all our sins
Yonder, see the folded cloth
It is not an ending, for now,
it all begins.

by Adrian Wait

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Comments (1)

Adrian, this is a staggeringly good poem on a much written about subject. Please, would you do me the favour by reading mine titled, Holocaust AD. I think we're on the same wavelenght. Cheers, Jerry