Sunday, April 8, 2012

my sword

It was while we were in Capernaum.
I thought I'd better get a sword.

You kept saying we were going back to Jerusalem,
but I know the leaders there hated you,
even though the people praised you,
I thought, 'we've got to have a sword'.

You never seemed to understand things,
the right way,
the way I saw them.

What kind of King comes without a standing army?
What kind of King wanders through the wilderness,
filled with thugs and thieves,
without a guard to protect him?

Are you crazy?!

I know you did that walking on water thing.
And that you'd raised the dead.
And healed the sick.
But surely we'd need a sword!
My sword.

They came in the night,
as we knew they would.
Cowards and manipulators,
always seeking cover of darkness.

And I was glad I had a sword.

But you.
You told me to put it away!
The first blow struck
was the last blood for my blade.

And then...

Then I really wished you'd let me use my sword.

But all too soon you were dead and buried.
We sat at the table,
wounded and bewildered.
And my sword quivered at my side,
in anger and fear.

Then Mary came running,
she'd left the others,
came tearing off to tell us your body was not there.

I picked up my sword and ran.
Fast feet did fly,
adrenaline did take them.

Whether guards or priests,
people or peasants,
my sword,
my sword,
would fight for your body.

They'd desecrated your honour,
shamed your glory,
ruined your body,
quashed your story.

But I, with my sword in hand
would never let them take you again,
I would take a stand
and fight ten thousand thousand.

But you...

No thief had raided,
no thugs invaded.

had adulterated
your resting place.

And you didn't even need my sword.

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