Denis Martindale Poems
* The Cross Of Christ
The jeering crowd like jackals stood,
To see what must be done.
Though once they thought this man was good,
They didn't see God's Son.
They called Him Rabbi, Teacher, Lord,
Yet now He was Rome's slave.
So all His claims were now ignored,
For who was He to save?
The nails were driven deep inside...
More drops of blood soon fell...
Once lifted, hoisted, crucified,
His life was just like Hell.
Torment and torture lay ahead.
His scourged back stung and bled and bled
As briars bruised His brain.
His mother wept each passing ...
I Am The Writer!
I am the writer of each piece, the captain at the helm,
The one in charge who sets release the words from every realm...
So be it Heaven, be it Hell, or merely middle Earth,
I am the writer who must tell the length and breadth and worth...
Why interfere in what I write? Why intervene at all?
Why challenge me? Just stay polite, unless you hear me call...
I am the writer of each piece, each phrase and chosen word,
Responsible for every thought and blessing that occurred!