The Writers' Circle

A perfect rose,
Stands alone in the garden,
Rising up above the ground,
The sun shines brightly,
Over its petals,
As the dew weeps its way down.

He prayed alone. He cried in vain,
Tears of blood streaming down,
He aches for us. He suffered the pain,
Knowing what fate lay ahead.

Never getting the time to rest,
Quickly taken away,
His skin was torn. His heartbeat crested,
Took our place so we might live.

Nailed to the cross, nine hours long,
Then He breathed His last breath,
He came to earth but didn't belong,
His spirit returned Him home.

The stone rolled away from the tomb,
Jesus rose from the dead,
He took away all sorrow and doom,
Rejoice in the Lord. Be glad