The royal death - a prince has fallen
For him,
No lowered flags,
sombre bells or muffled drums.
No tributes from dignitaries near and far,
broadcast specials or royal sepulchre.
Just,
A crown of thorns,
A spear in his side.
The father turned his face aside
While soldiers mocked and cast their lots,
A last breath,
He cries: ‘it is finished’ and
‘Into your hands I commit my spirit’
And, as in the beginning,
darkness and silence befell the earth.
And then,
A furtive burial - a borrowed tomb,
Just some women to mark the spot.
While church and state praised themselves,
‘Another troublemaker hits the dust’.
But then,
These bones could not turn to dust,
buried beside royals gone past.
His thorns our crown.
His tomb, our womb.
One Prince,
Fallen to rise no more,
Carried to his grave by they that mourn.
Another, to rise that glad morn
And ride on, ride on, in majesty.
