Writ In Red

There’s an old story,
one you might have heard.
It tells of no ordinary man,
take him for his word.
It tells of his travels,
and of folks he did meet.
It tells of his journey,
a path trodden by feet.
Onward he travelled,
nowhere to lay his head.
It tells of healing,
and those from the dead.
It tells of his burdens,
and of those against him.
Sold him for silver,
many did condemn.
Though ordinary looking,
many did walk past.
One told of a tree,
for the crowd was too vast.
They are innumerable,
these stories you do hear.
If written upon pages,
no one room could bear.
There is one book,
it tells no lore.
It speaks of a cross,
and of death no more.
It tells of a man,
a carpenter’s son.
Nailed to a tree,
for sins he hadn’t done.
He conquered death,
the grave couldn’t hold.
It’s all in the words,
that he has told.
Each verse carefully writ,
his words aren’t dead.
It tells you the story,
the letters writ in red.

bubba broadus