Clamor beats the dusty clay street.
Brazen soldiers prod condemned like beasts.
Moans and taunts now bellow and repeat,
Sadder than Egypt on the first of such feasts.
Fledgling mothers with poor widows wail,
Appalled at the sight of the Firstborn Son.
Although His vigor fails, He must prevail,
Laden, burdened, till His work is done.
A blood-stained crown with spittle and sweat,
Disheveled hair yet penetrating eyes,
Veronica endeared can never forget,
For her linen brushed with His holy guise.
“Oh, daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep
Or beat your breasts for lo the wood is green,
But one day they will beg the mountains steep:
Fall and cover us who have no child to wean.”
“The same will deem the barren blessed,
Relieved that she has never nursed,
For it will be an age much more distressed,
For fruitless depths are duly cursed.”
Oh, what will happen when the wood is dry?
This parched season yields a withered tree.
Bourgeoning barbarity is why
The righteous remnant bears much misery.
Pure brows sealed against the day of death
Of mourners marked by angels with a cross.
The debased and defiled will breathe their last breath,
When molten metal is distilled of dross.
The Day is near for the harvest is ripe.
The dazzling dawn discloses Satan’s swine.
Soon tears of the true the Savior will wipe.
“Recline at My table and drink of new wine.”
