Simon of Cyrene

He stumbles and tumbles there, in the mud,
His face is bruised and smeared with blood.
His cross lands hard across his back,
I wince to hear his bones thus crack.

A violent hand then seized my arm.
“Come, black dog, or feel some harm,
Lift up that cross and bear a part!”
Thus forced, I do, indignant, start.

But as I stoop, His eyes meet mine,
They’re filled with only love divine.
“Oh, my beloved, please bear my tree,
So I might make on high the Three.
Behind me hide, in judgment’s lee,
For I will take it all for thee.”

Aye, gladly, Lord, when you go home,
I’ll bear your cross from here to Rome.

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