by gonzodave coulon
2/21/2008 / Poetry
Of my life,
You pipe a dirge,
They hear a jig.
They sing they didn't,
They da-nce they did.
To glo-ry and pra-nce,
the awful dance of the wicked!
The re-sur-rect-ed Christ denied and slain,
by his fol-low-ers with His Name.
A glorified body does not bleed,
Christ is dead just the same.
The crime is hid-den!
So who's to blame?
So who's to know,
before they go?
We keep law!
to feed His,
* Excerpted from a submitted article titled, "Thus May We Gather Honey From the Weed."
Copyright 2007 David Coulon. All rights reserved. Use with credit.
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Copyright 2007-2008 by David Coulon. Registered and released under CC license 3.0 2007-2008.
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