(Yet another poem from my old notebook. It should be sung to a pulsing dirge. And “facade” should be pronounced to rhyme with “Parade”, with a soft “c” and a long “a”. Unless I find a different notebook, this should be my last old poem. I won’t promise that there won’t be any new ones.)
Solemn and silent, marched the mournful parade,
Carrying death in their arms.
Quietly, calmly, watched the passing facåde,
Bearing death in their arms.
Why so solemn? Why so calm?
Why do they stand and wait?
The King of Glory has come and died.
Our hope has arrived too late.
With arms outstretched He gave up breath.
The Lord of Glory has died.
The Lord Inconquerable has been conquered by death.
My God has been crucified.