His sits this throne of common, lifeless earth,
The works of His own hands behind His back.
He counts the stars and sands, He knows their worth,
And still, so high above, His mood is black.
At His command, the stones that grind His feet
Would end His suffering, the hunger pangs.
In His cup is a share more bittersweet,
The bread on which the world’s salvation hangs.
The air is still; temptation comes and goes,
But He keeps faith to teach the world His name.
His reasoning, no flesh or spirit knows,
As who of us for Him would do the same?
He chews and chews on what the serpent said,
This king without a crown, a man half-dead.