Weary this broken way
The pools of red
Are resting inside the pits of every cobblestone.
Walking with conviction
My eyes show it most
I will climb this hill waiting just ahead
The shouting from each side has withered down.
But what I really hear,
Are the whispers.
What I see,
Are the outstretched hands and sorrow filled eyes
Of the gentle women peeking through the masses
The cross is dusty
And heavy on my skin
But I am not going to stop yet
My rest waits among the storm
That crests Zion
This red flowing out of my wounds
Is the paint that creates a masterpiece.
The color is all too precious for these sorrows.
And I know, even in the death that waits atop that hill
I will be sanctified.