Three crosses stood on a desolate mound,
Against the dark and brooding sky,
One cross seemed taller on its patch of ground,
Where it stood with its arms stretched wide.
A special cross, the small bird knew,
That fluttered near to its feet,
Not so unlike the other two, its own way, unique.

The little bird would not fly away,
It hovered above like a crown,
It seemed that the bird was destined to stay,
As it fluttered and circled around.
The tiny bird made no effort to land,
And it never veered far to the side,
It nuzzled its head on the bloodstained hand,
Of the Man being crucified.

Its chirping so soft, so tenderly sweet,
It could not be heard by the crowd,
But to the Man on the cross, it was replete,
And more than sufficiently loud.
When the earth split in terror and shook with might,
The tiny bird sang its last hymn,
Then stretching its wings, it flew off in the night,
At the end of The Lord's Requiem.

by Virginia (Ginny) Ellis
Copyright 1999 ~ Revised 2006

Artwork by Danny Hahlbohm ~ do not take without permission. Thank you.

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