The din and doom of the battle-drum
is sounding out to war,
the roads and ways are marked with graves
of those who marched before,
and we are warned by pages worn
of waste and wounds to come;
but yet the page in the drawer is laid
at the doom of the battle-drum.
Some are called greatly for great things.
So was he, his share allotted by one who saw,
to serve the Glory, to bear the yoke,
to plough the fields of harvest.
Miracles went forth, he healed the sick,
the demons fled, he preached the word,
he heard the doctrines no book tells.
He kept the purse of a prophet-king.
And am I more than he? Can I
boast a higher calling? A greater hope?
Far less the simple peasant
than a noble of the King.
He bore the burden; it swiftly broke
the very bones and tendons; he fell headlong,
his blood upon the ground.
And can I bear a greater weight?
Is cock's crow so different from a kiss?
The blood runs cold with an icy thought,
that all manner of men betray;
that we all betray, and all fall down,
and receive our devil's wage.
-->And here's a redraft (added later):
Scream of the Rabbit
Child-like, it screamed; he ran,
past bush and tree he ran.
Three times it shrieked and a fourth,
heart-rending, chilling, desperate-making,
its terror tearing soul-strings.
Blooded, it lay caught; evil teeth,
iron teeth, spring-powered fangs,
ripped flesh, tore tendon,
drew life out on soft fur.
He opened the jaws; a thankful head
nuzzled his hand for the kindness
and died, life flowing out,
eye losing light. He wept.
Vision crept around him, grief-bidden,
laying bare each soul,
each trap-seized, iron-teeth-bitten,
with heartache like dying rabbits's screams,
life flowing out, death coming on,
nuzzling kind hands that help
before death comes. He wept,
calling the world its true name;
its true name is Golgotha.