a poem by Edwin Keith Jepson, UK - poetry writer, author, poet

Though in pain he walked the land,
Step by step he made his way,
Not in one place did he stay,
But always close with healing hand,
And as his footsteps trod the sand,
There were those who planned, to put him on display,
A wooden cross, crowds in disarray,
A crown of thorns, nailed feet and hand,
He hung in torment above the rabble band,
Was it not for them to understand,
Why he was chosen on that day,
To suffer and die upon the cross,
Perhaps to a few he was no loss,
But around the world 'o' how millions pray,

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