This is a serious little tale
Not of the Tiger that terrifies a terrain
With its tireless tail
But of the wood by the Blood’s rain.
It is an ancient story
Of the wood on rugged plain Calvary
It was the bed- the death bed
Of the holy one so dogged.
And unto the believer,
A wood that paralyses woes
And revitalizes hopes before the foes
For there, He crushed the accuser.
Sinners need pay no more
The death wage of sin to bore
‘Cos of the wood owner’s dripping Blood-
The pool that drains away guilt’s mod.
Lost souls need bear no longer
The place of the fiery furnace’s flames
Because of the last breath on the wood of no fames
Of the first Man, so ‘cursed’ to be the saver.
Captives of the flesh wear no fetters now
And militant soldiers conquer how?
By the Victory crown,
The thorns that tortured God’s own.
Prodigal sons suffer never again
The shame of their harlotry aloof
‘Cos of the spittle on the wood
And the lance that pierced its owner for higher gain.
It was the wood of the hour so still
The pulpit of the dying Prophet-hero on a hill
Who brought an end to the dominion of sheol so lame
And established authority by his name.
My laud story is of this wood
The elegant wood, most wanted by He
Agnus Dei, who came to a lost we
Safe for this cross made of wood.