Via Dolorosa

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
Without weakness

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.

The Way of the Rose


Morning broke in your poetry this day.
It carried me to a road, far, far away.
I walked behind you, into the crowd.
Red paint mourning, it bled outloud.
Upon your shoulders shadows fell.
I saw God's image, pounding nails.
Bearing up on the way of the Rose.
We found our way, where Love grows.
Mother pressed Her tears into His sea.
Clouds gathered and we found destiny.
Rain to tears, thorns of Earth did rise.
The message forever the same:

"Those who belive in Him, shall never die."

I loved your poem. It brought verse and music to my day.

Blessings dear friend,

Kathy :) xo

Dallas, Texas

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