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"The Cross" (by Joe DiMino)


Blood flowed from His palms,

ankles red and bright--

the blind were first to see Him,

and the lame first stood upright.


The proud

of course they fled Him,

and the strong

sort refuge in might--

while the famished

approached the pool

at His feet,

took fill

of their portion in light.


Of this I bare witness,

recall vividly clear,

times I stood

firm on the ground,

times suspended in air--

times I embraced

the base of the Cross,

times I fled with fear.