The Cross He Carried

Image: StockSnap @ Pixabay

The cross he carried made him tarry
Too long beside the road. 
And so, he found the others
Had moved on despite his load.  

And as he loitered, so their voices 
Grew faint into the dawn. 
And torn, he wondered if he
Was too late to follow on. 

Alone and friendless; now defenceless,
To life’s capricious ways,
He struggled, weakened, ‘neath his
Cross as night arrested day.

And thus, his path was in the darkness,
Misplaced to weary eyes.
And so he laid his burden
Down, disgraced by woeful sighs.  

But then a cold that soon unfolded
Crept deep into his bones
And helpless to his knees he
Sank, now weeping and alone.

And in his blindness, gone was kindness.
The way too hard to wend.
His cross a weight too stout to
Stay his course until the end. 

Better then to sleep, and gladly meet
The cold and dark to come.   
What use to toil and labour 
When one's soul is overrun?  

Yet still, when early dawn seamed pearly
To send away the night,
The cross again he shouldered
Then stalked on into the light. 

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