In his name.

           In his name.

  Red is the wine that leaves the taste of blood. Tasteless is the bread, memories from up above. On a lonely hill so long age, there lay a lonely shepherd without a flock. Sent to us to teach of care, but heed did we of which we did mock. Of babes we sing that decked our tree, with forgiveness not for you but everyone said he. In the shadow of a hand hewn beam there between those of three, we are not worthy your throne to see. They speak of you as they call your name, but the mockery remains the same. With lessons taught, but never learned, of cross’s crossed and cross’s burned, of deaths demise we play the game.
By GWRoggenbuck