Still He Died

Still He Died 

When I think of Calvary 

I think of how Jesus died for me 

Who else could love me more than he? 

His all he gave 

That we might me saved 

Just to think how he suffered, bled and died 

Brings tears to my eyes 

He knew he would be rejected 

By those he loved the most, 

But still he died 

I know I couldn’t have done the same 

He never placed blame 

In spite of being hurt again and again, 

He had love in his heart until the end 

He could have asked that he might live 

Instead he asked that God would forgive 

He could have had honor and fame 

But he let it all slip by, 

Still he died 

He hung on the cross 

To save a world that was lost 

He paid the cost for you and I 

A crown of thorns was placed upon his head 

Nothing was said 

Willingly he suffered the pain 

Again and again 

He was stoned 

Until he was gone, 

But his love lives on. 

On the hill of Calvary 

Jesus died for you and I 

His own life he could have saved, 

But he loved us so much that he gave 

He gave his life so that we might live. 

Knowing that all would not heed his call 

He gave his all. 

In my mind this picture replays 

Any words I could say would never be enough 

My mind cannot begin to understand 

The wonder of his plan 

He sacrificed 

He paid the price 

He gave his life 

For you and I 

He suffered the hurt and the pain 

Again and again 

He could have had honor and fame 

But he let it all slip by 

Still he died 

  

 copyright Patricia Newman Harris

Poetry month..I Live and Breathe Poetry

I Live and Breathe Poetry

Just like some people crave coffee 

I crave poetry 

I make no apologies 

I live and breathe poetry 

I don't know what I'd do if I lost my poetic flow 

If my minds pen ever runs dry 

Surely, I’d just shrivel up and die 

It would definitely be my worst nightmare 

No poet’s cupboards should ever be bare

Whenever I go for a spell without writing 

I start this infernal nail biting. 

I find myself wondering when 

The dry spell will end 

Will the words ever spill from my mind 

Like fine wine?

I yearn for those vintage thoughts that give one reason to pause. 

I’m not looking for applause. 

I hope that’s understood. 

I don’t need accolades 

Cause those things will surely fade 

I just have a simple love for poetry that I can’t define 

It’s my lifeline, 

In an ever-pressing world 

Where problem after problem can unfirl

I’m sure somebody here can relate 

My sanity is at stake 

Poetry is my inner peace 

That makes the noises cease 

I live and breathe poetry 

It sets my spirit free 

Poetry is the wind beneath my wings 

It makes my heart sing 

And my spirit soar 

It is the open door 

My quiet in the midst of the storm 

It makes my spirit feel reborn 

So, I pray my well doesn’t ever run dry. 

I want to keep writing until I die. 

Even then, I want my writing to live on

Long after I’m gone 

I want it to bring comfort to the comfortless 

And rest to the restless 

I want it to be a source of inspiration 

And revelation  

I want my words to be a source of encouragement 

To those who live in constant torment 

Then, and only then, will my time here have been well-spent 

Does that make sense 

To anyone but me? 

Or am I the only one here that lives and breathes poetry?

copyright Patricia Newman-Harris