Pity

How can you think of Christ without a sob?

Dropped like a beast in a foul nest of straw,

Forced, as a boy, with hammer, pliers, saw

To slave away at a woodworker's job,

A youth, he walked the world with grumbling maw,

Preaching the word to a disdainful mob,

A man, he had a price upon his nob,

And Judas sold him to the Roman law.

The spit, the lash, the doom, the thorny crown,

The nails, the cross, the vinegar-soaked rag

Tied to a pole, the diced-for bloody gown:

All burdens fell upon him, sacred bag

Of bones – hence the old saying handed down:

Flies always settle on a spavined nag.