And so he is born.
Not on the top of a tree,
Or in a jolly fur-lined suit,
But beside his exhausted mother,
In a not-so silent night of blood, sweat and dust.
And so he lives.
Not ensconced in a life of privilege,
Or in a place of liberty, abundance and ease,
But in oppression, amongst a desperate people,
In days of brutality, carpentry, blood, sweat and dust.
And so he dies.
Not of some prevalent, rife disease,
Or fading with a telegram from the Queen,
But criminally hoisted – falsely, globally accused,
On a cheap cross coated in blood, sweat and dust.
And so he lives again.
Not forever lost in an unmarked grave,
Or in the hearts and minds of his followers,
But with grave-cracking, death-splintering reality,
Gritty fists pulsing with hope for lives still immersed in blood, sweat and tears.