Ian Stewart Black

Modern master of classical poetry

Month: April, 2010

Proud

I may not be the bravest soul
Nor I the strongest man around
My words will never alter lives
Or some day render me renowned
My thoughts shall never shape the world
Or through my native land, resound
I won’t be known, a famous poet
Or be acclaimed by all, profound
 
I’ll likely never find myself
To stand out distant from the crowd
You’ll never see my name in lights
Or written boldly in the clouds
But for all this, a man, I am
And I am never lost, but found
For all I truly have is love
And all I am is proud.

 

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Friday

The weight of all the world, that day

Amassed, and on his shoulders, lain

Never looking back or doubting

Blessing every traitor, shouting

And to the hill, he made his way

That fated place of Calvary

Our burdens heavy, on his back

He died upon this Friday, black

 

For six long hours, he stood there, tall

Defiant peace against them all

Until his final cry resounds

And to the awe of all around

The earth did shake, the curtain torn

No dying mortal man we mourn

The world redeemed, the death of one

The cry went out, He was the son!

 

His body pierced, his death confirmed

He felt the toll that we had earned

The faithful knelt down in dismay

Now weeping where his body lay

Their eyes in tears, they said goodbye

In death, he lay, no man could rise

And so, in place, they rolled the stone,

For all our sins, his death atoned.